Always, always, we are alone.
The solitude of self prevails
For worker bee or drunken drone,
In palaces, on beds of nails,
Worshipped as a new messiah,
Shunned as neighbourhood pariah,
Proud or fearful—on our own.

Always, always, we are alone.
Though our lover loves us madly
We are but a house of bone,
Skin and bone they’d die for gladly;
Sunk in cells of stony quiet,
Whirled in carnival or riot,
Dead or living—on our own.

Always, always, we are alone,
Flushed with triumph, broken-hearted,
Old and knowing, scarcely grown,
Blighted by the griefs we’ve charted,
Innocents abroad or traitors,
Bankers, beggars, foul dictators,
Come the reckoning—on our own.