His Little Wing

His little wing was broken
His castle built on sand
We want to share the power

Share the power of his magic hands
Share the power of his magic hands

Can't you use your power
To mend yourself
Why not use your power
To mend yourself

His little wing was useless
His castle fell in the sand
His name was in the papers

He lost the power of his magic hands
He lost the power of his magic hands

He couldn't use the power
To mend himself
And we didn't have the power
To mend him ourselves

Our little wing is broken
Our little wing has gone
Our little wing has flown away

And ended up inside this awful song
He's ended up inside this awful song

Now we have no power
To mend ourselves
Now we have no power
At all

HAMLET
Let me see.

Takes the skull

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thing.

HORATIO
What's that, my lord?

HAMLET
Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i'
the earth?

HORATIO
E'en so.

HAMLET
And smelt so? pah!

Puts down the skull

HORATIO
E'en so, my lord.

HAMLET
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may
not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander,
till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

HORATIO
'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

HAMLET
No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with
modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as
thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried,
Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of
earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he
was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.

From - Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 5. Scene I