A fine young man,
a picture of life,
dislikes himself
in the mirror.
We saw him
off,
we talked of love,
we talked of sin
and forgot him.
A fine young
man,
a picture of life,
died alone
in the gutter.
We drank the wine,
we
felt the pain,
but no one felt
like his mother.
Father's not there,
a coward's
choice,
he scorned his son,
so inhuman!
We shook our heads
and turned
away,
we also denied
that we knew him
