ye senators, i wanted to inform you
you great actors of state, and high-born ones
don't pick my words apart again, I've warned you
you took the farm, and now you're coming for my sons
i nurtured them, and love 'em with abandon
and every year much more so than before
wrapped them in diapers, that my wife was handin'
and no, you won't have my sons anymore
no, you won't have my sons anymore
i taught them have respect for every creature
to feel pity, to feel mercy and forgive
contrary to what in your world i'm seeing
I don't stand for what you're burdening them with
they do not have a need for all your venom
they do not have a need for all your lies
i won't watch them shipped back in sacks of linen
and you won't watch them bleed and hear their cries
and putting up with you is quite a chore
but you, won't have my sons anymore
I taught them to be men among mere creatures
and now all men are dead or are in jail
the scum you are, I read it by your features
and reasoning with you's to no avail
those taxes that I paid, you never earned them
you bend the law to your liking, yes you do
those taxes that I paid, you'll never learn then
were just a bribe to keep them away from you
you wrote me these ten letters, go write some more..
you won't have my sons anymore
no you won't have my sons anymore
i sent them to your schools, what did you teach them
to university, what have they learned
you filled their head with dross, so I couldn't reach them
you made a dollar for every nickel that they earned
those dollars and utopias you presented
and spinning yarn you never seem to tire of
are just a substitute that you invented
for a father's wisdom and a mother's love
you made a lot of money, go make some more
cause you won't have my sons no more
no you won't have my sons no more
I'll rather have them homestead in the sierra
than have them be your well trained puppy dogs
I know of all your plans, your "war on terra"
you fillers of latrines, and fat happy hogs
they won't believe those things that you're pretending
when you read your script with a painted plastered face
your sons grew rich with loot and money lending
for those are the great virtues of your race
go farm some land or dig some iron ore
cause you won't have my sons no more
no, you won't have my sons no more
I'd rather be a gypsy ever roaming
and show them all the world has got to show
than make them slave to all your constant moaning
and set 'em up and put 'em on death row
they will grow strong and see their children's children
as i still breathe, this is my only aim
and they won't use the toys of war you're building
to protect some other scum's ill gotten gain
pour yourself a pint of pity, and some more
you won't have my sons anymore
no, you won't have my sons anymore