With only his dim lantern   
To tell him where he is
And every time a mountain   
Of fresh corpses to load up

Take them to the other side
Where there are plenty more
I’d say by now he must be confused   
As to which side is which

I’d say it doesn’t matter
No one complains he’s got
Their pockets to go through
In one a crust of bread in another a sausage

Once in a long while a mirror   
Or a book which he throws   
Overboard into the dark river   
Swift and cold and deep