Death is the poor man's doctor Life is the poor man's dream Passing them in the streets Like they're made out of nothing Forgetting that their existence is hard to maintain
Bowing down for the people who pass by Are we gods amongst the poor Or are we just the key that locks the door
Did we lose the human? How did we become inhuman? How did their hopes and dreams become one with the dirt What is the story of their hurt?
Is their misery self inflicted or are they the victims of bad luck One things sure, they are stuck
Refuel humanity at its source Cause one day their faith could be yours