Hundreds of lives a year,

No rest for the wicked they say.

But what is so wicked about selling something to feed a baby?

When you have nothing to sell but flesh or a high,

Is that really your fault?

Hundreds of lives a year,

Thousands rotting in the cold

Or drowning in the rain.

No rest for the wicked,

No homes for the poor.

Hundreds,

Hundreds of lives a year.