Looking through glass, glass of small pane,|
Into a disaster area again.
Pain of human face, pain of disgrace,
No sympathy rests here.
As I look through the window
He sips on a pint of beer.
At the coffee stained table
A little girl cries. As her mother shouts,
Out to him more of her lies.
The little girl is used to it
As she sits in the squalor,
Her mother takes drugs
She has bought on the street,
Without any bother.
Half burnt papers lie in the grate,
As dog hairs stick to the carpet to celebrate.
As if to mix with the rest of the grime,
The beer stains and coffee spilt over time.
Half papered walls add to the gloom.
As the child's tears hope it will be bedtime soon.
Doors hang from hinges or lean against the frame,
It seems as if they don't have any shame.
They shout at each other they don't talk at all,
They communicate through the child
Playing on the filfthy floor.
Sadness is not a word, misery is not a pain,
Crueltry is ignorance but they play it as if its a game.
In times of stress it has shown me once again,
That the guilty don't know they're always the last,
Their just repeating what happened in their childhood past.
So if you see a little child crying in the rain,
Have some sympathy it could be the little girl
I saw crying through the glass pane.
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