By brian francis
Troubles are coming
As money runs low
Nobody seems to care
There are no jobs
out there at all
the beggar’s hand is everywhere
There are union men
Their signs held high
Standin’ by every store
Children are hungry
Tears in their eyes
They don’t want to play no more
Out on the street
A few kids stand
hitchin’ for a ride
they’re goin’ downhill
it’s a bloody disgrace
they only know how to lie
Little runaway girls
Their skirts so tight
Standin’ on the street
A john drives up
She smiles at him
He taps on the other seat
Three times her age
Yet she gets in
He looses up his tie
As he reaches across
You can see in her face
That maybe she would rather die
Her boyfriend down
on the other street
hangin’ ’round the park
catches a whistle
from and old, lonely man
As he sells some weed to a narc
They make enough
To pay the rent
At forty bucks a night
They drink or get high
Nothing’ better to do
They have no goals in sight
Wordsmith: At The Forge 