These hands are creased and worn,

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.