Feeling faint a lonely saint
makes his way to heaven.
At the bus-stop on his own,
waits for the number 7.

And as the minutes pass away
he thinks about his final day,
when the bus comes drawing near,
in his eye there rests a tear.
He wonders has his work been done,
was his life a battle won.
Shall it be his final time?,
is this soul truly divine?

Now the bus is heading west,
the saint will sleep, its time to rest.
And as the sun begins to set,
there's nothing that this saint regrets