03-22-2018, 12:16 PM
IT MAKES ME WANT TO WEEP
By
Fatman Butter
When first fed on leaking breast
until boxed and blessed and laid to rest,
some never venture from the far side of the bridge
where lay fairy-tales of opportunity and privilege.
Oh my,
The sights they must see, looking out from their balconies.
What if fate should falter, and set them to work in factories?
Would they still have a wonderland to behold
If the sugar coating on their world dissolved?
Would they dare to walk along with me,
to where life hides its brutality,
down to the dark end of my street,
where what they see will make them want to weep?
Shoulders stooped from the weight of time.
Born to money, now without a dime.
An old lady dressed in fusty oddments and rag
carries her memories in a battered plastic bag.
She unpacks cherished treasures and childhood souvenirs
clutching them lights a pathway through hazy yesteryears.
Harry Hippy hates himself; all he possesses is a bad habit and regret.
Time to feed the monkey; his hands are shaking, he's dripping sweat.
Deep inside a lost part of him would deny...but far too long he's been a slave.
Will the evil-needle provide a paradise...or, this time, be a chaperon to the grave?
Bottle half-empty, wound up tight,
Johnny Angry is set ready for a fight.
He shouts and cusses amidst struggle and squalor.
Once he beat a man to death...for a dollar.
He doesn’t care if there’s another day or not.
To hell with the world and all that it’s got.
Nobody's strange when everyone's a freak.
It’s how it is here, and it makes me want to weep.
Don't mistake this as a brotherhood of the poor.
It's the bloody battlefield of an urban war.
There’s Sebastian; he’s got his knife.
He steals a wallet…He takes a life.
Many witness, but no-one will talk.
So the law-man lets the guilty walk.
Statistic listed, all that remains
a chalk outline and pavement stains.
Here in the shadows, people are meat.
The truth is harsh, and it makes me want to weep.
Isadora has two grandkids: don’t she look great?
Come next month, she’ll be twenty-eight.
One of the children suffers from a condition.
She’s so thankful she’s got herself religion.
Without money for a doctor’s care,
Izzy must trust in aspirin and prayer.
Day after day the same deep furrow.
It's hand to mouth just to make tomorrow.
Here are your tired, your poor, your huddled mass
Here in this wasteland of destruction and ash
All of them yearning for escape; but the road is too long. Too steep
I stand in the thick of this malady...and oh, how I want to weep.
Here is the place where the wretched are crushed.
This is the carpet under which our sins are brushed.
Magazines and newspaper make a doorway bed.
Half-naked lies a lady…who might be dead.
Hungry, a baby is crying underneath that heap.
I’m down on my knees, and now, I’ve begun to weep.
By
Fatman Butter
When first fed on leaking breast
until boxed and blessed and laid to rest,
some never venture from the far side of the bridge
where lay fairy-tales of opportunity and privilege.
Oh my,
The sights they must see, looking out from their balconies.
What if fate should falter, and set them to work in factories?
Would they still have a wonderland to behold
If the sugar coating on their world dissolved?
Would they dare to walk along with me,
to where life hides its brutality,
down to the dark end of my street,
where what they see will make them want to weep?
Shoulders stooped from the weight of time.
Born to money, now without a dime.
An old lady dressed in fusty oddments and rag
carries her memories in a battered plastic bag.
She unpacks cherished treasures and childhood souvenirs
clutching them lights a pathway through hazy yesteryears.
Harry Hippy hates himself; all he possesses is a bad habit and regret.
Time to feed the monkey; his hands are shaking, he's dripping sweat.
Deep inside a lost part of him would deny...but far too long he's been a slave.
Will the evil-needle provide a paradise...or, this time, be a chaperon to the grave?
Bottle half-empty, wound up tight,
Johnny Angry is set ready for a fight.
He shouts and cusses amidst struggle and squalor.
Once he beat a man to death...for a dollar.
He doesn’t care if there’s another day or not.
To hell with the world and all that it’s got.
Nobody's strange when everyone's a freak.
It’s how it is here, and it makes me want to weep.
Don't mistake this as a brotherhood of the poor.
It's the bloody battlefield of an urban war.
There’s Sebastian; he’s got his knife.
He steals a wallet…He takes a life.
Many witness, but no-one will talk.
So the law-man lets the guilty walk.
Statistic listed, all that remains
a chalk outline and pavement stains.
Here in the shadows, people are meat.
The truth is harsh, and it makes me want to weep.
Isadora has two grandkids: don’t she look great?
Come next month, she’ll be twenty-eight.
One of the children suffers from a condition.
She’s so thankful she’s got herself religion.
Without money for a doctor’s care,
Izzy must trust in aspirin and prayer.
Day after day the same deep furrow.
It's hand to mouth just to make tomorrow.
Here are your tired, your poor, your huddled mass
Here in this wasteland of destruction and ash
All of them yearning for escape; but the road is too long. Too steep
I stand in the thick of this malady...and oh, how I want to weep.
Here is the place where the wretched are crushed.
This is the carpet under which our sins are brushed.
Magazines and newspaper make a doorway bed.
Half-naked lies a lady…who might be dead.
Hungry, a baby is crying underneath that heap.
I’m down on my knees, and now, I’ve begun to weep.
