It ruins me
That things have come to this:

A cold, dark room
That you call your own
And a quota to fulfil
But you had to live
And this is what
You have to do
Each day
Except for Sundays
And perhaps on Sundays too

You lie to stay alive
Because you are so young
I cannot tell myself
The truth
Because it makes me cry
For hours
At a stretch

You hear the wolves
Calling in the distance
And you cannot run
Because they'll put you
Against the back wall:

I've seen your gallows
And I did not weep
But something in me
Died a little