This decadent thrill which seeks no bounds.
This hopeless truth which we partake,
in each and every day we wake.
The bell resounds.

We spy the hills. The youthful mounds,
which grow no grass, but smell divine.
You will have yours. I will have mine.
The bell resounds.

We stalk these hills, in leaps and pounds,
while e'er the innocent breeze, in cries,
would rather fight gainst time, and rise.
The bell resounds.

To see these hills grow big and round,
as though not held by word or time,
must surely be the greatest crime.
The bell resounds.

But always the circle of time comes round,
and we go back where we begun.
To pastures bare. To pastures young.
The bell resounds.