We are the waxworks that melt in the sun
the colours that run through the day
we are what's left when the days work is done,
the last colour of crayons that melt in the sun.

In the explosion of thought and ideas
the second sight of the seers goes blind,
the lion seeks comfort in the woolly coat of the sheep
and in the fallout shelters where the cast offs weep
the followers sleep.

I weep not for the waxworks nor for the sun
but for the colours,
for the colours will run and they'll run
anyway when the day's work is done,
we are the waxworks that melt in the sun.

In drips and drops until it all stops, when
the heat fades in the memories that shade you
from the harsher realities of this life's
inequalities and you'll think that you've won
until you take off the goggles and see
we are the waxworks that melt in the sun.