But most, thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

Pity would be no more If we did not make somebody Poor; And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty …

Revolution is a trivial shift in the emphasis of suffering; the capacity for self-indulgence changes hands.

Mother, mother There's too many of you crying. Brother, brother, brother There's far too many of you dying. You know we've got to find a way To bring some lovi…

And the war rages on in a land called somewhere And Generals order their men to kill And to fight for a cause theyve long ago forgotten While a little cloud we…