A poisoned fog they prayed for
Comes rolling from the lake
The children are in bed
They may never wake
Their parents left their windows open
They were told the cold would make them strong
Listening to what they’re told is right
Never focusing on what feels wrong
They sit in their armchairs smiling
Quietly drunk and comfortingly numb
By the morning there will be tears
As more often morning will never come
Two pennies for the ferryman
As the fog carries little lungs away
Lies written colourfully on paper
And parents pray for the fog again today
