This is man, He toils in the field
His skin cracks, his brow burns
He buries himself in his work
This is woman, she toils in the field
Her skin cracks, her brow burns
She buries herself in her work
Oh, to be an animal
To eat from your cradle
And sleep on your grave
But man marches on
He beats his weary drum against the current of his nature
He buries himself in his work
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