But still those feet hold up
that frame although they barely can
To a passing stranger with
no name he stretches open hand.
His longing eyes meet mine,
he says, "Hey, mister, can you spare
A loaf of bread, a pair of
shoes, a measly coin of care, I'll owe ya,
Share with this wretched one
below ya."
[Chorus]
Are they fools or are they
men?
Is it cruel to pretend that
they're not there?
Can one man mend a tear that
will never close?
Would you call him your friend
If you were told you're the
same in the end?
And will your pity bend to
his pleading eyes?
Here's to starving millions,
meanest hand of fate has hurled
To the cardboard towns, under
bridges down in most destitute of worlds
Picking for their measly share
in merchant's garbage cans
Sticking you with stabbing
stare, still reaching out that hand
Who'll save them?
Will misery enslave them 'till
their dying day?
[Repeat Chorus]
But I am genteel, I must keep
my distance
Cannot feel, I must show resistance
He tugs at my coat, I must
beware
Treat him like the stinking
garbage in the gutter there.
Here's to those who never had
a semblance of a chance
Victims of unfathomably ugly
circumstance
And will you care to ask yourself,
why does it have to be?
And is there something I might
do to make the world to see
Please tell me so!
'Cause this is just a song
I know.
[Repeat Chorus]
© 1983 by Dean Stevens
Marco Giunco |
Work | Basket | Music | Words |