DESCRIPTION:
Chorus
Rich mans paradise, poor man's hell,
Rich man's paradise, I bid fare-thee-well.
Bread and roses all the way, for the chosen few,
You ain't thinkin' of me my friend, but I'll be thinkin of you.

There is no pity, down in the city,
The gentlemen with heads held high,
Won't see the homeless lady, with a little homeless baby,
Little tears came glistening in his eyes.

Shipyard towns are dying, shipyard folk are crying,
Fearful of the things being done,
They won't hear them wailing, you will find them sailing,
With their 'Morning Clouds' they'll hide the golden sun.

When Sunday bells are ringing, you will hear them singing,
Songs of Praise, the Lord on high,
They will read the Lesson, call down Heaven's blessing,
Living through their Sunday morning lie.