Shall I compose a tragedy
On the canisters of meat and food lined on empty stores
Next to the aisles as sold-out grocers
Tomorrow is no place for the stares of vegetables

The depths of the ocean are blank not blue
As the deck of the ship under the sun without a tune
Captain's call reaches a few onboard
Tomorrow surrounds us like dew on a leaf flown

Shall I compose a tragedy
Pile lines after lines, as they do in slaughter houses
Deciding whether to leave a smell of freedom
For the prisoners inside

Tomorrow is not for the man on the pavement
For it may be the coldest winter next
Tomorrow is not for the grieving widow
If she were to find love behind the locked door