For toil and hard work was this soul born
No creams and lotions does this soul use
To smoothen hands rough from years of abuse.
These hands are soft and fair,
Unlined and beautiful from years of care
But deep inside, this soul lies dying
No-one cares that this heart is crying.
Eight o'clock has come and gone,
Giving these two souls diff'rent reasons to mourn,
The pain of one's body is almost too much to abide,
The other's feelings have been cast aside.
Two souls, seemingly diff'rent, but really the same,
One touched by oblivion, the other by fame;
They cry to the world, but nobody knows
That day by day, their sorrow grows.
Are wealth and riches the answer to life
Or pain, hardship and years of strife?
Is death truly the most terrible of foes
Or merely a way to escape our woes?
The answer to that, nobody knows.