The Homeless

I feel their pain; I don’t know why.

Of the poor and needy that pass me by.

Their tattered clothes, their ruddy face,

Their down trodden look, so out of place.

They live in tents or along the road,

Under the bridges or spots untold.

Men and women, and children too,

There seems so many, what can I do?

Some are vets who served us well,

Now their life’s a living hell.

Don’t they deserve a better deal?

A place to live?  A four-course meal?

Others are sick or mentally ill.

Some are teens or younger still.

Each with a story of pain and sorrow,

Of their constant battle for a better tomorrow.

We live in the richest country in the world,

And pound our chest at the flag unfurled.

We’re the “land of the free and the home of the brave,”

Yet our poor and our lost we’re unable to save.

So I give ‘em a dollar on the freeway exit,

And pay my taxes hoping “they” might fix it.

But it breaks my heart when I ride my bike,

Past a homeless encampment that sports a trike. 

--Ken Ferguson--

Artista di Parole