He's passed out for the night

Lived in one house all his life

You can count the decades in his eyes

Fifty year old fistfights and the scars they leave

All the awful liars, all the perfect thieves

But he trusts in the rule of law and hates the current scapegoats

Never asked for more

And what will he have to show for the years of hard work

Faithful service and standardized routines?

And when he dies alone with nothing in hand

Burned out shell of a working man

When he dies alone with empty hands -

How long will the body lie before someone walking by notices the smell

Calls cops and they come to put him in a box (and mark it with a number)?

Somewhere past the city limits somebody pulls his file

Stamps it void and throws it on a pile

We take care of our own, at least on paper

We take care of our own

Who gets his number?