Karembeu

Karembeu was a boy,
But he hadn't any toys,
So he had to make do with the street;
But his friends were all gone,
The boulevard forlorn,
Dashed to pieces with the world's war beat.

So Karembeu did stroll,
Through the heat and the cold,
And arrived at the boulangerie;
Much bread for the monsieurs,
And the rats in the sewers,
But none at all for his family and he.

So Karembeu did pass,
The rich upper-class,
With their champagne and their caviar;
They drank rubies and diamonds,
Unlike his friend Simon,
Whose thirst did take him on afar.

And Karembeu keeps walking, these streets every morning,
Which always lie covered in snow.
The sun rises never, but not for bad weather,
But Karembeu doesn't know.
No, Karembeu doesn't know.

The days keep on passing,
People keep amassing,
Silks and garments beyond Karembeu;
He then wonders the why's,
Inwardly, he cries,
Why his own rags are never so new.

The bright sun goes down,
The smiles are still frowns,
Homeward bound are the pains of the road;
Great hope's his artifice,
This world will never rise,
To be the kingdom which God had showed.

And Karembeu keeps crossing, these streets every evening,
From where suffering will never go.
They'll get crushed in due time, with humanity's crimes,
But Karembeu will never know.
No, Karembeu will never know.

The moon dimly shines,
Inside the boy whines,
He knows his whims never will be true;
He can't dream any more,
As the knife opens doors,
And he lies murdered by me and you.

And Karembeu lies dead every night on his bed,
Where dreams never do claim a stake.
The sun will keep burning, the earth will keep turning,
But Karembeu will ne'er awake.
No, Karembeu will ne'er awake.