Ghosts, the life
Oh don't you know who you are
walking like ghosts, riding in cars,
yet you see your lives as real,
looking happy by living deal to deal,
claiming significance in trifling gains,
claiming importance by absence of pains.
Bouncing on laps, bundles of designer joy,
exchanging their futures for a small plastic toy,
looking with satisfaction at hunger sated,
drenched in commercial fat with whining abated,
shiny little moments where care is banished,
in whitened clothing with no time for the tarnished.
Oh and watch the down and outs,
walking as ghosts to you no hope for the louts,
not for them the millions of meaningless sounds,
nor their right to the images of burning grounds,
go now give them hope, a word, and a pound,
but give them their place, drop it on the ground.
|
|
