In the department of Social Security
With my form for the funeral fund
Filled in using the pen and ink of death

In this department, the air is made of stale crystals
They fit each applicant like a suit of misfortune

The trunk road of alcoholism ends here
The graffiti of an angry society roughens up its theatre

The last stop on the way to the morgue
The eyes of Death are present here

The last line of help before the cruelties of winter take you
Before you become a social outcast living in the street

A department scourged to a minimum parsity
By the bones of the depressed and the lonely

A huddled woman sits here submerged in a sea of worry
An alcoholic pisses against the wall outside

The receptionists are barricaded in for their own safety
Behind the walls with the glass windows

We all hate to set foot in here
This government department border crossing for unconverted pagans

It’s here you must convert or end up alone
Fighting against depression and the elements of your wrecked psyche

This is a shrine to the sins of Adam and Eve
Here the sacred snakes can be heard hissing

There is not the enigma of comforting scripture
There are only lifeboats of paper money under the decaying flesh

When the days begin to seem like years
And the years turn into the days of eternity

Can’t this be left behind?
Like a station left behind on a journey