The White Songbook

From earliest books comes belated ink
Of feather green toads paired in potent pink
And barley bears from distinguished heirs
Make nests for us in bavarian lairs
To each comes ends lone messengers send
Telegrams to aging lambs
While singular troops' countenance droops
Over infamous hillsides
We have come to be known as the deprived
A lone boy cries from bleak hillsides
A decade made by our dim age
The tools have been lost for hearing
Who will endure for the endearing
Snowy slopes loom large upon northern poles
Weariness instructs alll the hearts of the bold
Heads hang low down leaf strewn roads
From here, where are we to go...