There’s an angel you know,
He used to say.
An angel in my mind,
And in my heart.
And though its colors have been
Stripped away by Time,

It likes to sing,
He used to say.
And play the harp
Without any rhythm,
Without any flow.

And the world, it was so cruel
To tell him
The rhythm his angel played was a pain
And slowly that song,
The song of the harp, of the angel;
It began to fade.

And I asked him, though I knew he would not respond,
Was there anything I could have done?
Done to keep his angel,
His broken, beautiful angel.
The one that he had preserved in between the Sunday paper.

The Sunday paper, so very grim.
No one would care to look behind the print,
No one would ever find him.

But those fools!
Those terrible, horrible fools!
They came and tore off each and every one of the sheets,
Tore all the skin from his bones!
They took his angel and they broke him.
They took his heart.
They took my home.

And I know he won’t respond
For his eyes are closed,
He breathes
No more.

I know. I know
There was an angel once.
Right there, where there was once a pulse.
It used to sing,
And play the harp.
Without any rhythm
And without any flow.