It shakes, they shake, as the ten thousand march on by,

Their vicious sound and fury drowns out the Lonely's cry.

 

But the Lonely has no fear,

For fear is in the Crowd.

And the Lonely feels no guilt,

For guilt is beneath the shroud.

 

As the Crowd converges, their footsteps all a-thunder,

Ten thousands hands reach out and force the Lonely under.

 

But the Lonely has the strength,

For fear is in the Crowd.

And noble is the Lonely,

For guilt is beneath the shroud.

 

The tides of black roll over the Crowd, shivering, cold, and smothered.

Their prey forgot, they tightly knot, they cling and grope together.

 

But the Lonely is free to breath,

For fear is in the Crowd.

In the dark, the Lonely can see,

For guilt is beneath the shroud.

 

The Crowd lays still and silent, to fearful to whisper or hiss,

But, of the ten thousand, one or two stand and vanish in the abyss.

 

Because the Lonely is not alone,

For fear is in the Crowd.

Yes, the Lonely is never alone,

For guilt is beneath the shroud.