But the womb of mans progress
Breaks its waters upon us Utopia labours upon our greed
And so it delivers of its progeny
And comes an infant swaddled in sorrow
The fertility of the earth is failing
By the industry of its children
This unquenchable population of man
And all the midwives panic
As they huddle around a Parisian bed
But still a concord they name it
And hope with it the earth can be saved