With only his dim lantern

To tell him where he is

And every time a mountain

Of fresh corpses to load up

Take them to the other side

Where there are plenty more

I’d say by now he must be confused

As to which side is which

I’d say it doesn’t matter

No one complains he’s got

Their pockets to go through

In one a crust of bread in another a sausage

Once in a long while a mirror

Or a book which he throws

Overboard into the dark river

Swift and cold and deep