The tribe had torn itself apart;
A tragic end that none foresaw.
They used to eat what they had found
But then they learned to till the ground.
Their backs were bent to reach the soil
Their minds grew numb from endless toil
Although their crops could feed much more
Their lives were nasty, brutish, short.
And when a cry was raised to stop
And feed themselves no more with crops
The tribe once numbered ninety-nine
But now two hundred stood in line.
So half must leave to lands unknown
But who could judge the ones to go?
And so instead consumed with fear
They carved their plowshares into spears.
The freedom that the victors craved
Was stripped from those that they enslaved
And thus society was formed
To work the fields forevermore.