There are those who would trade in,
those,
who have not paid in
to the system.

In the valley of the shadow
where the mission bells ring hollow
and the hollow eyes of homeless men,
unaware of any system, which means
nothing more to them,than a cup of soup
that's handed round,they
seem to float above the ground,above the
mist which swallows dawn,
and some wonder,
who was born to give?
In the valley who can live?
Here,
where the bona fide have lived or died,have broken bread,
here,
among the living dead
where it is said,
the truth remains behind the walls of melancholy souls,
where happiness has dug out holes
and filled in sin
with tins of Campbell's minestrone soup.

It means nothing to me,
I stoop to pick up from the gutter, the stepped on cigarettes of men,who mutter curses underneath their breath,
here,
in the valley of the living death.