Born under black skies, with no expectations We crawl through our paralyzing pantomime of life Awaiting resurrection, the great unwashed seethe In quiet desperation we accept our condition fatally Is this the present? Can we call this life? And for the future utopian, dystopian, or death? Thirty million voices, slogging through the undergrowth As islands in prosperity, they fuel it with their blood In total separation, they scavenge for their daily bread Forgotten citizens, a class in themselves lost at sea Is this the present? Can we call this life? And for the future utopian, dystopian, or death? What have they worked for These dreams in the gutter, unspent? Desire traded for dearth And Hope for destitution? As eaters and eaten break bread They learn their trades in time But the teacher must be taught just as well And as such this tragedy unfolds