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His father came to him with news of their demise The peasants turn from work to light the burning fires That shone like beacons with a message full of hate A crumbling government assembled to dabate A mere formality and anyhow too late To save the system of injustice and decay
	Tinker, tailor, a poor man stole Judge him not by anothers sole Ambition in life to wield the stick Upon the wounds that we all lick
On his instructions he changed into servants clothes His father wished him luck and urged him then to go A last embrace, unshedded tear, away from home
	Chorus
© 1986, Music: ARK, Lyrics: Ant Short

This is an abridged version of a Damascus song called The Sickle, about the French Revolution. The original version provided Ant with an wonderful opportunity to display his simple yet emotive flute playing.