Here comes the beekeeperWith her pitcher full of smokeShe'll put us all to sleepI hope it's dreamless and it's deepSweet Prometheus, come homeThey took away our fireAnd all that this scarcity promotesIs desperate men and tyrantsWhat fine designWhat handsWhat mindsThe envy of EdenOur tools and our reasonIt's clear in the animals eyesWe standUprightBuild firesAt nightMade on the sixth dayTo rest on the seventhAnd now we just try to surviveThe surgeon and farmer meetAnd each greets the other with a bowThey're kindred instruments, you knowThe scalpel and the plowIn the shadow of the mountainWe work when work aboundsAnd we wear out all our prayersWhen the work runs out