Half eaten pie, on a doorstep crying
Blackened fingers from a miners son
lifting the lid the on the streets paved
with old gold sold, to a hairbrained schemeing witch
with a half witted husband
and a love like a son
burning the backs of everyone


Half a chance, in a window melting
swollen fingers of a poachers son
stealing the facts from everyone
leave a your face by the door
and your dinner on the floor
flowers for the wealthy
newspapers for the poor
god spilling from every door