I must get down to the injured,
Groaning , but unheard of in the cacophony of vehicles,
And waisted in stony-heart men,
Who, like ******, let the blood ooze out
And brush away the whining.
I must get down to my little son,
Waiting at the school gate,
And I, like a crazy father,
Can't help stopping to receive him.
I must get down to the maimed,
And that's the work of a prophet,
And forget my son, and I know
A little bit wait will make him
What I'm today with this man