The men in their suits
on fire in the streets,
from eight to five
they're not alive
they give their collared bleats.

The angels in the kitchens
with their smiles white from crest,
grip the handles firmly
thrusting deep into their chest.

Bright eyed boys and girls
so ambitious and alive.
They inhabit days
that ever wax
and always thrive.

Alive Alive Alive we'll always be,
who'll deny these cherished ones
the things their eyes will see?
A preacher in his parish hall,
so lonely without sin?
A teacher lost inside the small
immensities within?

A tiny mind
a broken orb
a little lost refrain,
a beautiful and fragile child
that God could not ordain.