A man stands on the bridge looking over the river; someone walks on his grave and makes him shiver,

He glances to his left as a shadow passes by; a young voice says ‘hey do you want to get high,

He turns to face the kid and slowly shakes his head; the shadow keeps on walking towards the valley of the dead,

He thinks to himself what will become of those punks, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.

The girl is fifteen still goes to school, she likes to have a laugh but she is no one’s fool,

She goes to a party and feels a little low; she snorts a little powder to be part of the show,

Wakes up the next morning on some old wast land, no underwear and an unused condom in her hand,

Now it’s three months later and she is starting to show, her debs are next week but she doesn’t want to go,

Her grades are slipping but she cannot afford to flunk, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.

Its midnight in the moonlight a boy is sitting by the lock; he likes the sound of the river he likes to smoke his pot,

He wants to tell his family he don’t know what to say, how can he explain that he has always been gay,

The river is hypnotizing as it rushes quietly by, then something snaps inside him and he begins to cry,

He hits the ground running and into the lock he jumps, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.

The farmer’s pushing sixty and he has drunk away the farm, looking for a little comfort he sticks a needle in his arm,

Now his life is over and death cannot come too soon, now his only real friends are a needle and a spoon,

If you meet him down the pub and he is drunk or mellow, it’s easy to believe that he is a real nice fellow,

Everybody says that he is just a harmless drunk, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.

The musician with the ego could have made it big, at every music session he was the star of every gig,

But he fell in love with cider, with beer, and with stout, now no matter how hard he tries he cannot swim back out,

The magic in his fingers like his ego have long gone, he is the local high stool critic of every cord that’s played wrong,

All his dreams and aspirations like the titanic have been sunk, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.

The house is filled with darkness there’s a footstep on the stairs, the child dreams a child’s dream blissfully unaware,

Her eyes open wide with fright as she hears her mother shout, her father is home drunk again her mother want’s him out,

The child curls up into a ball and tries hard not to hear, she knows that when she is old enough she is getting out of here,

Going to school the next morning her father’s lying on the floor, walking down the stairs she can still hear him snore,

As she quietly steps over him he smells just like and old skunk, that’s just another little story in the valley of the monks.