The staircase creaks, the horns will blow,
the old shepherd joins the unemployment line,
claiming he has nothing left to show.

The poet weeps, the squeeze-box moans,
there's a reflected face pleading to be mine;
he sits and he sighs in heavy groans.

The cathedral stands, the tears fall,
percolating misery of stale breadline;
I return to you, cradle and all.

The reason's weak, the will is slow,
still I offer my hands and declare 'I'm fine',
before falling to ash and to woe.

The reaper reaps, the boy atones,
the new shepherds are turning water to wine,
they're selling their souls for pay-day loans.

The empire stands, the heroes fall,
they turn to sound-bites and faded sign,
to infant orphan – cradle and all.

This poet weeps, these tears will glow,
I will walk this police state and toe the line,
until I have nothing left to show.