Post by davidmm on Apr 13, 2008 2:42:51 GMT -8
The following is an experimental poem I wrote some time ago. So, here it is - dusted down and revisited;
I'll tell you the tales of the gutter,
Of people who dwell in the slums;
Who stand in the soup queue for handouts each day -
And exist just by eating our crumbs.
I'll tell you of nights without number
When hunger destroyed and killed sleep;
I'll summon up Hell with the tales I can tell
And I'll damn you if you will not weep.
For nothing escapes from the gutter,
It grasps you and won't let you go;
It holds you so tightly you hardly can breath -
And the blood in your veins can not flow.
The world walks on by as you lie there,
Your dignity stripped and laid bare;
The tears in your eyes come as no big surprise -
As no-one responds to your prayer!
You know there is no God in heaven
You face ev'ry day on your own.
For who gives a damn if you die in your sleep?
The gutter you face all alone!
The friends you once knew hurry by now.
You stare, ragged kneed and unkempt.
With barely a glance they pass in a trance
And the haughtiest look of contempt.
For pride has no place in the gutter,
All feelings are ripped out and torn.
Your body is merely a cold empty shell
And you wish you had never been born.
All beauty is stripped from your mem'ry,
A rose has no form and no scent;
And when a child cries there are no lullabies
That can ease or prevent the lament.
And when did the sun last smile kindly?
And when did the moon last guard sleep?
And when did the gentle and soft Spring time breeze
Dry your tears if you started to weep?
But who are the folks of the gutter?
And how have they fallen so far?
And why are they hushed? Did they fall? Were they pushed?
The answers are not so bizarre.
Each country has need of its gutters;
The wise men who rule have decreed.
If we don't obey we will all finish there -
We all have to pay for their greed.
The plum voiced well-fed politicians
And "Worried" who writes to 'The Times'
All plot and conspire to hold on to their wealth
And the gutter must pay for their crimes.
With the stroke of a pen on a letter
A country can cease to exist.
And all in the land, on the show of a hand,
Are punished if they dare resist.
Condemned to a life in the gutter,
Condemned to a life with no dreams;
Forgotten and lost like a leaf in a storm -
And no-one can hark to their screams.
So many are born in the gutter,
All born there without any choice.
They watch and they cry and they live and they die
And they open their mouths with no voice.
And where can they find a true champion?
The one who'll campaign without pause?
Ah, where is the one who will lead from the front,
The one who will carry the cause?
Is there no escape from the gutter?
Once there are they shackled and chained?
Has liberty flown and left them alone -
Is anything ever explained?
Yet, sometimes a route from the gutter
Is offered by wise men on high.
A chance to escape in a glorious cause -
Providing that no-one asks, "Why?"
When nation fights nation for glory
And princes must fight or lose face,
The rulers despise and the gutter supplies;
And gives up its youth with good grace.
And loud were the wails in the gutter
When young ones all fell down and bled.
The Angel of Death spread his wings far and wide
And the gutter remembered its dead.
And when all the heroes aren't needed
The gutter is waiting again.
Though many have died, with its arms opened wide
It welcomes them back to the pain.
And what did they gain for their glory;
Just ribbons and medals of tin?
The princes and rulers slept safe in their beds -
For whatever the outcome they'd win.
I've told you some tales of the gutter,
Of people who dwell in the slums;
Who stand in the soup queue for handouts each day -
And exist just by eating our crumbs.
So spare a kind thought for the gutter
And say a few words when you pray.
Don't laugh and dont scorn, for soon you may mourn -
You're only a heartbeat away.
I'll tell you the tales of the gutter,
Of people who dwell in the slums;
Who stand in the soup queue for handouts each day -
And exist just by eating our crumbs.
I'll tell you of nights without number
When hunger destroyed and killed sleep;
I'll summon up Hell with the tales I can tell
And I'll damn you if you will not weep.
For nothing escapes from the gutter,
It grasps you and won't let you go;
It holds you so tightly you hardly can breath -
And the blood in your veins can not flow.
The world walks on by as you lie there,
Your dignity stripped and laid bare;
The tears in your eyes come as no big surprise -
As no-one responds to your prayer!
You know there is no God in heaven
You face ev'ry day on your own.
For who gives a damn if you die in your sleep?
The gutter you face all alone!
The friends you once knew hurry by now.
You stare, ragged kneed and unkempt.
With barely a glance they pass in a trance
And the haughtiest look of contempt.
For pride has no place in the gutter,
All feelings are ripped out and torn.
Your body is merely a cold empty shell
And you wish you had never been born.
All beauty is stripped from your mem'ry,
A rose has no form and no scent;
And when a child cries there are no lullabies
That can ease or prevent the lament.
And when did the sun last smile kindly?
And when did the moon last guard sleep?
And when did the gentle and soft Spring time breeze
Dry your tears if you started to weep?
But who are the folks of the gutter?
And how have they fallen so far?
And why are they hushed? Did they fall? Were they pushed?
The answers are not so bizarre.
Each country has need of its gutters;
The wise men who rule have decreed.
If we don't obey we will all finish there -
We all have to pay for their greed.
The plum voiced well-fed politicians
And "Worried" who writes to 'The Times'
All plot and conspire to hold on to their wealth
And the gutter must pay for their crimes.
With the stroke of a pen on a letter
A country can cease to exist.
And all in the land, on the show of a hand,
Are punished if they dare resist.
Condemned to a life in the gutter,
Condemned to a life with no dreams;
Forgotten and lost like a leaf in a storm -
And no-one can hark to their screams.
So many are born in the gutter,
All born there without any choice.
They watch and they cry and they live and they die
And they open their mouths with no voice.
And where can they find a true champion?
The one who'll campaign without pause?
Ah, where is the one who will lead from the front,
The one who will carry the cause?
Is there no escape from the gutter?
Once there are they shackled and chained?
Has liberty flown and left them alone -
Is anything ever explained?
Yet, sometimes a route from the gutter
Is offered by wise men on high.
A chance to escape in a glorious cause -
Providing that no-one asks, "Why?"
When nation fights nation for glory
And princes must fight or lose face,
The rulers despise and the gutter supplies;
And gives up its youth with good grace.
And loud were the wails in the gutter
When young ones all fell down and bled.
The Angel of Death spread his wings far and wide
And the gutter remembered its dead.
And when all the heroes aren't needed
The gutter is waiting again.
Though many have died, with its arms opened wide
It welcomes them back to the pain.
And what did they gain for their glory;
Just ribbons and medals of tin?
The princes and rulers slept safe in their beds -
For whatever the outcome they'd win.
I've told you some tales of the gutter,
Of people who dwell in the slums;
Who stand in the soup queue for handouts each day -
And exist just by eating our crumbs.
So spare a kind thought for the gutter
And say a few words when you pray.
Don't laugh and dont scorn, for soon you may mourn -
You're only a heartbeat away.
