Crwth.

A coward calls it cowardice
Many upright people nod,
And with eyes unlooking
Apply a poultice of words,
Diagnose a deficient character
And prescribe death
In the form of crimson tablets

A rich man calls it madness
The poor, perhaps reality
But I've seen the hoary heart
Of the great stumbling machine
With my own eyes as it beats
With its drums, all being to order
And I've listened far longer

Than any star has had existence
The pale horse now rides
Over the horizon and I'm left
Without even that to ride upon
And with nothing but dreams within dreams;
How long till the cowards are freed
And allowed to be men again?

How long?
How many tears will it take?
How many screams?