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."
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?
But I am genteel, I must keep
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.
© 1983 by Dean Stevens