That is Fred, right there - can't you see him? There! In the middle of this teeming mass Standing on one foot, eyes shut - that's him Next to the one looking all measly And the one that died in custody Frankly he has no name or number But for me he's Fred - he's special The luckiest mate in this sad crowd 'Cause he's a dreamer - he blocks out His wretched world, his sore feet, his trimmed beak He's a dreamer, Fred, my friend I hope he'll dream till the end Dream till his soul is set free And woe a faint memory Now he's dreaming his favourite dream Runs wild in the sweetness of spring Feels he too is a child of this earth - Though he knows no sun, no rain nor tree In his dreams he knows and he's free Today I have to say my blue goodbye Tomorrow he'll be stuffed into that car Leaving for the central abattoir Where he'll be paralysed but aware When machines cut him up - oh, bloody nightmare! He's a dreamer, Fred, my friend I hope he'll dream till the end Dream till his soul is set free And woe a faint memory
Written by Devin Mortenson, Leipzig 2002 (Love Letters From New York)