When I see a man with no money in his hands,
So he sits on the floor and he begs.
And then you walk past and don’t even glance,
How does this man have a chance.
You’ll say that you can’t, tell yourself you have no time,
But he’s the one who’s time is running out,
So next time you’re around and you see him about, He’ll need your help no doubt.
For that man has no food, no water to drink,
He sleeps on the floor through the night,
You can’t spare some change, because you’re selfish and deranged.
No conscience and you sleep tight.
What’s lost from the beginning?
Being born into a system warped by limits…
For addiction is worn by victims,
more than just boredom,
it’s torment that something is missing.
For the streets are in pieces,
with forced grins and false laughs…
Plenty of accolades of a rockstar but they still laid chilled,
frozen under stars,
probably haven’t laughed since the last bath,
where you draw the line in their harmed arms has just left you with a tally chart of dark past.
The people walk past fast,
faster than they did when they were half asked to give a few spare parts their broken hearts.
“Keep your coppers” he said, “I’d rather change”,
on their faces they look deranged but they still circulated plates of her majesties face…
oh what she could erase in a day,
if she had her priorities in place.
_Thank you to Joseph westley for collaboration.