Paradise shines through the eyes in the lines
of the young men who are old men,
the daily grind men,the five to five men who
wait silently for the stores to close and go rabidly
through what they chose to throw
away.
Don't tell me dead men do not smell,
they stink to high heaven steeped in hell.

At this riptide by the wayside where frightened rabbits hide,
where the living died and the dead reside there's the feeling that the
politicians lied,
they're not Romans come to conquer us,they're the vagabonds and detritus,the throw away of which they glean each day becoming cannibal,it's a carnival but there's no clowns.
and we laugh at them while looking down on them,not seeing through them to the young men who are old men,
when did dreams expire?
when did we become the higher echelon?
It could be you there,would you then care and who would  give a **** for the fallen man?
when the open can is the bible and the ten pound wrap is the new age trap who'll be liable and when you hit the street conversing with concrete they'll think you're mental.
Sometimes I've been in the lines and I've seen paradise,seen it shine in the moonlight when the 'hit's' hit me right,
lived and died,stunk as well and to me
paradise is just the same as hell.