Success! Progress! The unfinished work of men now dead.
In life each day they lived to be the ones who always led.
Following each day-I swear I wont complain about rain,
The failing now are preached to by those who feel no pain.

They call them "men of power," they worshiped in their might,
Call upon the spirits that do modern science magic every night.
For those of us non-believers, we hold our heads down low,
Not a ***** word, for pity's sake! We're learning to darned slow.

So I am "successful," it plays on in my own mind.
In a while I will be dead, leave this short life behind.
The faithful are now martyrs, they give cash and "daily bread,"
For a common preachy answer from their "son that bled."

But what is success? Can I measure it in meters, in parts?
Can I tell a blind man that he needs faith to walk in the dark?
Or is it only true that we hold our heads up-even fight,
To find a hero that will die for us, instead of keep our sight.