There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold. She refuses to make them a sound. How it pains them to think that for me she does sing While I carry their riches around. I might work in their fields, bear them their meals I might carry the letters they send. There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below That will shatter the shovels of men. There are children of theirs in the bedroom upstairs. I taught them their letters and words. They refuse to be heirs and inherit their share Of a fortune that they never earned. I might sleep in their fold, do as I'm told. I might shepherd the young that they tend. There's a silence I leave in the spaces between That will shadow the lessons of them. I might meet on the shores they defend, handle the money they lend. I might shackle the hands they condemn. There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below That will shatter the shovels of men. There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold. She refuses to make them a sound.