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God love the poor, in hovels of hell
Huddled against the chill of a night
Faces frozen in time-ravaged pain
Happiness dwelling far across town

Whither hast gone the last bloody penny
Whisked from the mouths of babes
Tears be the token, hunger the norm
Sustenance robbed by the baron of wealth

Over the fields a bloom in the spring
Some know the morning as friend
Others the sorrow of children unfed
Waiting, awaiting an end.

By Metaphor

© 2019 Metaphor (All rights reserved)


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