February 1991


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 golden promises
That had been so glibly spoken
Proved to be like the proverbial pie-crust,
Made only to be broken.

Some war 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 younger derelict?
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 idly watched
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.