Pity, that man is what he is
And may not rise tall as mahogany
Above a debased lowliness among shrubs

Pity, that the human heart of man
We so much wait worshipfully on
Turns quisling in moments of dire need

Still pity, that charity has turned hate
Turned into vessel of public spit
We do little more than turn our nose at

It’s indeed pity that trust is lost
And then set about in quest of it
We reveal that it’s done and gone

So, after reaping all life’s cares, our mean efforts
We turn to our heart to discover in thee
No room for our sweats on earth, pity.