What do you wear, poor Angus,
when the wind blows down the hills?
I make myself a warm cloak, sir,
of hope and daffodils.
And what do you eat, poor Angus,
when hunger makes you cry?
I make myself an omelette, sir,
of fluffy clouds and sky.
And who do you love, poor Angus,
when Catherine's left the moor?
Ah, then sir, then's the only time
I feel I'm truly poor.
I am turning in revolution
these are the scars that silence carved
on me
