Sunday, October 18, 2009

A Poem

soemwhere a baby cries
he's hungry and cold
flies are in his eyes
who's to blame for the shape he's in?

Not me - I'm not my brothers' keeper


somewhere an old man dies
lying in a gutter full of whiskey and rye
who's to blame for the shape he's in?

Not me - I'm not my brothers' keeper


somewhere there's a man in prison
locked away - never seeing the sun
who's to blame for the shape he's in?

Not me - I'm not my brothers keeper

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