He who makes a beast of himself removes himself from the pain of being human.

Thrupenny sixpence sparrows and doves
See all the angels a-weeping above
there's no more forgiving, there's no-one to save
for today darling Lily goes into her grave

Send the Tramp Catcher, cosh the old man
Sink him in a barrel of gin
When he's all mixed and the bones turned to jam
We'll raise a glass kindly to him.

A skin of a shroud
a stump of the bled
old Lily is flyblown
old Lily is dead
and dreams of the jungle
will flood through her head
and light up her head.

Hands are bleeding, raw. I scrub and scrub but the smell will not lift. How can I hold my children with these hands now? How can I kiss them goodnight with lips that have issued such instruction?