A child is born, another child dies
an old man wipes the spit from his eyes
The morning sun, the evening moon
the cabaret show will begin very soon
Alone by yourself, or without any friends
It sometimes seems the day never ends
The father sings about love and things
The rich woman plays with her diamond rings
The sea is raging, the lake is calm
The dead man’s body is wrapped in balm
The thundering clouds erupt with power
The day ticks by, hour by hour
The silken sheets, the lacy pillows
The drunken man’s rage as he screams and he bellows
The roses bloom, the city’s alive
The little boy plays with a wicked beehive.
A child is born, the mother cries
An angry young man shoots at five other guys
Alone in a world, being born is a curse
The grandmother falls as they steel her purse
The teacher screams, the child falls back
The souvenirs sit on the crooked old rack
The Unicorn leaps through the stars in the sky
At night time children believe they can fly
Dreams unfold, life grows dull
The empty brain lies dead in its scull
Without any love, a child is born
In this world to grow up in filled with scorn
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Paul W. Walters – March 7, 1996