Skid Row is heaven, Skid Row is hell
Skid Row is night
Is the dream in black and white

A flower is born on the gray wall
By the hands of man
Who cried for a long time
But children no longer cry

How paper become boats
Or airplanes
In the hands of the boys
I was think that in your hands
Would be good laws

In some places the dawn
Come to remind me
How was yesterday
The kites fly in the sky
And fear the weak hands
Of the children