What do we do with our freedom?
For life were all like prisons.
And like brand new spring blossom.
We'll die and fall away.
When the year turns autumn.
Followin' the rain.
So why are our souls in prison?
In caves to hide away in.
With each a will of our own.
Why do we keep doing wrong? (I don't know)
But our freedom wont stand on.
Our freedoms what we make of it. All right?