Mercy Street

How do you live on almost nothing
Can you ever make nothing go round
The seeds of despair
– hopeless – unfair
They drive you into the ground.

There are those who work hard
– they do what they can
They stand and are counted and stay true
They help, give advice and they never ever judge
They’re there every day, and there spirit doesn’t budge.

They don’t get paid, oh God, Good God no!
They’re there because that’s what they do
’cause when no-one else cares about what’s going on
They find that they don’t have a choice
Being the conduit for the proud and the poor
In a way it allows them a voice.

Is it you? Is it me? Who is doing enough?
Can we answer this question in truth?
There’s folks dying in pain
– on the streets where we live
We can no longer remain so aloof.

He never mastered the art of begging
In a previous life he’d have mocked
At his feeble attempts to get tourists to part
With a penny or two for some bread or a tart.

But after the shame and the breakdown
Near an archway with others like him
He found that he had no more ego
Nor well fitted suits to make him look slim

He lived from a moment to the next one
He ate when he could or just slept
And at night he tried not to remember
In his solitude he silently wept.

We’re not really a caring society
We spend more on fighting than care
It will never ever get any better
Not enough of us behave at all fair.

For there are those who will feast at the table
Throwing only bare scraps to those less able
Misery will increase – the poor get disease
While the rich and empowered stand at ease.


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