In a world missing unity,
there is a need to mend,
measuring bulbosity,
does indeed offend,
as markets grow, flesh does die,
to conquer only ash,
where scaredy sheep, won’t ask why,
fearing system’s lash,
but, as the poisons, make the mud,
there are three strands of rope,
that sing a song, maintain the good,
rebuilding up the hope,
ear-worming into stonehead,
composing some relief,
as sickness is; Westminster fed,
to make a dead belief,
amidst all the car horns,
three tones speak their peace,
they will surely, keep you warm,
a trusty friendly fleece,
for, a three-part harmony,
truly is the goal,
even if you’re far away,
they will feed your soul.