When the prospect of food is slim
Hunger is no more a dream
No more the philosopher’s pastime
Or a poet’s subject for rhyme.
And they only know hunger
That starves for lack of food
With empty bowels suffer
A hunger raw and rude.
We must’ve seen them
Emaciated half-dead from famine
We must have seen them
The stray dogs of our city
Chance alive by scraps of pity,
But we, assured of the next meal,
Can’t ever feel
The pangs of hunger
With no food to heal.