France, what is there to say about you,
The home of Notre Dame,
Where the people gathered at the cathedrals',
In drones', to hear the bells' of what they called God's Throne.
Lining the street,
They listened well,
Gathering the word's of what they loved most,
It wasn't women or gold,
Cars' or the roads',
More it was the bell of the old stories' told.
Celebrating the breaking of the bread,
The red wine,
They did shed.
In the streets', before they fled.
Did they put their religion to bed ?.
I don't know, I am asking please,
Can you tell me ?.
Where did your praise go ?,
When did the call stop?,
Did you forget your own bell and clock?.
Now do you see, why did the people flee,
From the flock,
What was it ?,
That gave them no shock ?.
The stories',
Were told,
Of a poor mum,
Left out in the cold,
The traveller and wayfarers',
In different lands',
Then you say you do stand firm,
Against other people travelling afar,
What is this ?,
Oh dear, how far have you travelled into the world,
Of life and love, material wealth,
Is it really a very powerful spell ?,
That has bewitched you,
Through and through,
Not leaving and coming over to what is true ?.
What is true ?, you do ask,
Is humbleness not a start ?.
