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Friday, 17 March 2017

Without A Home

Here I am on a park bench, peacefully sat,
When who walks on up - a junkie gutter rat;
Look at him all skin and bone
With a face so thin and without a home.
He looks to me like hes off his head -
Oh my God is this his bed?
To my home I'd like to lead
To give the lad a proper feed.

But I won't, because he'd rob me blind,
That's how he'd repay me for being kind;
So I'll pick myself up and leave him behind -
But next to my bed I'll say a prayer
That our God my lend a care.

A sonnet.

Copyright Andrew Stevenson 17/03/2017

Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.

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