A fine young man,
A picture of life,
Dislikes himself
In the mirror.
We saw him off,
We talkes of love,
We talkes 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 scomed his son,
So inhuman!
We shook our heads
And turned away,
We also denied
That we knew him.
Writer(s): Marcus Meyn
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