Lonely words on paper sing
Black ink sways to and fro
I staple the sheets to hand them in
At nine o’clock tomorrow

Lonely words on paper sing
Praises of a higher kind, although
These fall off their papery wings
Down they spiral, down they go

And hell it burns these wondrous things
Lonely words on paper lie
So for their errors, for their sins
Consumed by flame, their praises die