(Brooker / Fisher / Reid)
For you (whose eyes were opened wide whilst mine refused to see)
I'm sore in need of saving grace. Be kind and humour me
I'm lost amidst a sea of wheat
where people speak but seldom meet
And grief and laughter, strange but true
Although they die, they seldom cry
An ode by any other name I know might read more sweet
Perhaps the sun will never shine upon my field of wheat
But still in closing, let me say
for those too sick, too sick to see