By J.A. Weymouth
Damn it all the eye that sees
A crying pain, a sinking hope. Lost now
The modern feeling is beyond all me.
A touch of a sinking age, now
And always through a pictured
Her legs spread for an insurance add.
Oh screaming children who cry against,
The elder men and women. No gold for these
No respect for the elderly.
No handicapped ear.
And what form do you have? For a stamp.
Or a dollar?
No print can remember us.