As their voices fade into an endless quiet stare, a tired, wrinkled overgrown hippy in a wrinkled tweed coat and baggy trousers stands up and raises a tankard of brown ale. His hair is long, his eyes steely ut puffed with the residue of grief and perhaps abuse. He looks neither up nor down, but into the middle distance, and he sings in a full, rich baritone with just a trace of Midwestern twng:

There'll be a time I hear tell
When all will be well
When God and man will be reconciled
But until men lose their chains
And righteousness reigns
Lord, protect my child

He sits down, sips from his drink, and takes a large, wrinkled handkercheif from his pocket, and buries his weeping eyes in white linen.