Sitting at Holger Danske Bodega in Elsinore, Denmark, I wrote this in 1975.

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The social activist or political poet is lonely at heart..perhaps no more than anyone else, but no less. This is a song about it.

In the bar at midnight
The poet-drunkard spins a song of torture and of tears
Of lovelessness and sleeplessness, empty beds and regiments
Wasted bones and fear

There are tears enough for refugees
Of lives lost to the crimes
Of soldier, statesman, citizen
But no soul cries for lives deprived of loving

And in the corner of the bar
The poet's pen bleeds whiskey on the wood that turns the world upon its head
To marry death and dreaming
To weave the notion that in both loveless nights and lifeless hearts
There's weeping and the suffering thread's the same