There will be no purpose
to them, to them

And there will be no purpose
to them

There will be no purpose
to them, to them

No, there will be no purpose
to them

The creatures great, the creatures small
came when called to gather 'round.
When long ago the gods did make
their creature-gathering sounds.

From within a semi-circle vast
and ever deep and wide,
the creatures held their holy deities
in such sparkling, innocent eyes.

The gods they spoke in hushed tones,
so rumbling, low, and grave.
Hushed tones that turned the creatures' hearts
to a dismal, grey dismay.

The gods proclaimed, then disappeared
each one by one by one.
And nothing did they leave behind
save Earth and Moon and Sun.

The creatures held each others’ hands 
to help them ease their pain.
Then some began to sing a song
to sing their hurts away:

There will be no purpose
to them, to them

And there will be no purpose
to them

There will be no purpose
to them, to them

No, there will be no purpose
to them