On streets turned hard and hopeless,
Lie broken men and old.
But golden dreams and fancies,
Turned to dirt, addiction, cold.
They thought the world owed them a living.
They lived the pleasure life can give.
When they looked for help and loving,
Found no warm nor helping hand.
For those who ought to love them,
Had joined the treadmill’s loveless race.
And the comfort, warmth and laughter,
Had gone from heart and face.
Would you give money to the addicts?
To the “losers” on the streets.
Would you give them human contact?
‘Ere they drift into the long dark sleep.
This man gave up home, job and money.
To his wife when they split up.
Thought it best for his own dear children.
Drank in full the bitter cup.
That girl, there, is only fifteen.
Had a home next door to hell,
Where stepfather, cruel, resentful,
Drove her, angry, to rebel.
One came south to find employment.
He too from Glasgow came.
But found a squat and heartache,
And more of much the same.