That big white finger
In the sky
Could split the clouds
And come on down
To stop above
Your little house
And turn you
From a pauper
To a prince
But then that finger
Could come down
To point out
To the whole world how
You’re guilty
Of some unknown crime
And turn you
From your bed
Into a straightjacket or cell
We read our
Sunday papers
And marvel at the luck
Of those
Who win
And those
Who lose
But when a knock
Comes at
Your door
Remember that
This time
It could be you
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