(III)

Chorus One

Toiling on our rolling rock
Every man's a tramp.
Stripped to every staring star
Stands this camp

Where fires don't seem to warm the good
And the damned are never cool,
And to a land of fury goes
The flame-blind fool

Who seeks a mother in the sea,
A father in the sky.
Man is married to simple clay,
In clay will lie.

Under all the falling rain
Round the warm earth,
The stop of life's death,
The stop of death, birth.