Flying on the dusty street,
climbing the naked mountain,
painting pictures of the dead,
using the blood for ghastly stain.

How long need I tread my soul,
in favor of the road ahead?
Is that a smile to the lips of the child,
or is it just for another loaf of bread.

I fly and seek all the vales,
past which the rivers flow.
But all I recieve my little friend,
is just another fatal blow.

For thus the joker lives,
and trades his tales for gold.
Until the crowd tells him one day,
that his lullabies are a bit too old.

A little grave under a pinch of sod,
where the story lives ever and again,
behind the curtains and the hills,
the dusty street and the mountain.