Here she lies On the cold, hard ground Crying to the wind Trying to make a sound "Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare" A bundle of rags is what she is Completely threadbare The windows are aglow With incandescent light The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night "Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare" There's no one outside To neither hear nor care She lights a match for herself In defeat The match flickers and dies Like the light from her eyes "Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare" Her whispers stir The chilly winter air
I'm interested in the prospect of exponential growth and often wonder how some people are able to cope when they find themselves in favour with all the hope of realised dreams in life due to their efforts or oath.
Or where there has been a sudden increase of wealth such as those we hear of who rise from rags to riches for there are many true stories told of people's niches and the way they have acquired a fortune by stealth. __________
They say that times were tough then That money was very tight But I remember my childhood And I know that can't be right Mom would cook our dinner Dad came home at five We were all sitting at the table Waiting for him to arrive We wouldn't eat from a microwave Or a restaurant down the street We all ate Mom's home cooking And boy that can't be beat We didn't eat in front of the TV Or with a phone in our hand We weren't plugged into a stereo bopping to the latest band We would all sit at the table Everyone in their place There were never any surprises We recognized every face Brothers to the left of me Sisters to the right That's the way we ate dinner Every single night We laughed we joked we talked we ate We were a family don't you see Though some may have been raised poor You can see it wasn't me We ate collards we ate biscuits We ate fatback and blackeyed peas We said yes sir we said no sir We said thank you ma'am and please So when you talk of family life Or how it used to be Though many had more money None were as rich as me
my clothes are not torn out, so what? i can still write a poem hunger isn't killing me, so what the k? i will still write a poem. i ain't clouded by poverty, and there's no hole in the ceiling to see the stars on a clear sky. so fu*g what? i will still write a poem. i am 'poles apart' a condition like the Pink Floyd's "Division Bell". but i am still writing my poem. i don't read them to people, friends, strangers or everybody. anybody? but nobody might read them, and I still write the poem.