By D. R. DiFrancesco
Dirty faces streaked with tears,
Revealing the shell of who they were,
In silence they live their greatest fears,
Passing by, you pray they do not stir.
Their homes a box, a shantytown,
No cover from rain, sleet or snow,
Living with luck or fate torn down,
With arrogance you look away from those below.
Sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers,
They too were once like you,
Annoyed you pass, you can’t be bothered,
With these paupers, beggars and shrews.
They did not ask for their station in life,
For many, no fault of their own,
They huddle with daughter, son and wife,
On these sidewalks and alleys alone.
Lift yourself up and make your own way,
With what, is a question to be asked,
Struggling to eat day to day,
There’s no time for their plight to be masked.
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