You roam the spiritual plane, Feeling no pain, A shining light that will never wane, Your Mother's thinking of you again, Will her life ever be the same? But you are free, As anyone can see,
He's in the moons silvery crescent, And the sharp eye of a pheasant, The swift movement of a hare, You'll find him there Spirit of the forest Inside the towering oak, This giant awoke,
He stood on the windswept battlefield, All alone his senses reeled, The Knight wiped his sword on the grass, Around him fallen comrades lay, The end of a bitter, bloody day,
Head in pieces like a broken vase, Standing on bridges shouting at cars, Casually cutting himself, Counselled on the National Health. Voices whispering in his head, Better off dead,
Across the blasted plain the lone walker plodded. The bubble helmet made his head appear strangely misshapen. His environmental suit sagged in places giving him a lugubrious look.