My heart goes out
to the derelicts
Who clutter many a city street;
Shabby, filthy and loathsome,
An affront to each person they meet
What happened to
the erstwhile baby,
The bonny bouncing boy;
The young man, clean-cut and wholesome,
His father's pride and joy?
Some blame must go
to the arenas of war,
Where planes swoop down and the bullets scream;
Causing men to leave wives and families
To sacrifice each precious dream.
To return home,
war-weary and haunted
By things they had seen and things they had done
To find heroes were no longer in fashion,
Peace had been lost though the war had been won.
To find many of the
That had been so glibly spoken
Proved to be like the proverbial pie-crust,
Made only to be broken.
casualities are not recorded
Except in the heart and mind
Of each soldier who returns from the battle
And of each woman he'd left behind.
And what of the
Who is also "Down on 'his luck?"
Much blame must go to the pusher,
Who is out to make a quick buck.
What about we who
As our nation's standards fell?
Whilst children deprived of love and discipline
Entered their own living hell?
Jesus loved and
encouraged the outcasts
He sought out their company;
Now this responsibility,
Rests squarely on you and me.