'Stowaways'

My chambermaid of fortune drops rose petals from the roof
of our understated mansion,in the attic of the aloof.
We keep our darkened silence 'til the lights beneath have died
into a deepened sleep,opening a great divide.
We talk all night of promises we both know we'll never keep,
we look each other in the eye until we fall asleep.
All our passages are whispered,we dare not scream or shout
for being found the stowaways that no one knew about.

Mr.Smith,he drives to work in a fine Mercedes Benz.
I imagine he has parking space,'longside his colleagues and his friends.
Bet he rides a lift to work in a silent vacuum trance,
the mind of preaching practice overcomes the will to dance