Where is the love-loss?

Is there no toll?

Here we will suffer

Until we grow old

Our lives will seem wasted.

Amounting to nothing

Until we see ourselves

in the eyes of the new youth we have tasted

Forty hours a week

Of our lives we have spent

all in the name of earning a living

A living

A living, so that in this world,

We may live our lives

Lives so futile,

So pathetically small,

that they have no signifigance,

We're just a speck on the wall;

A bit of paint in the mural,

Spread out over the wall.