The ragged, those bedraggled of clothing, so dirty-faced,
Pictures of children in a foreign land, all to be embraced.
Those shallow complected, of only skin and bones, a tot,
Bringing tears to all eyes and heart palpitations, of the lot.
Pity the old woman pushing her entire world, of what is left,
Before her, in her buggy, stacks of clothing, heavy their heft.
Straining and bent, she slowly moves in most humbled gait,
Across the long highway, down the roadway, is to be her fate.
That older man, so resembling a Hobo, sits by the road,
The skinny dog, his only friend, helps to relieve his load.
In the rain, in all anguish, such pain, any weather permits,
Colder times, in a snow, no shelter, does nothing but sits.
A thinly clad family, parents, small child, to walk a highway,
Nothing to carry, no time to tarry, only what's on their backs.
A railroad so near, and what do we hear, a winding railway,
Its long refrain, as if crying, a train, rolling down noisy tracks.
Once the picture of health, now is a great loss of wealth,
All outdoors, from both seas to the plain, poorer environs.
Drained of its blood, since times of a flood, by the greed,
An unhealthy look, all that it took, no society will succeed.
A humbling of hearts, as we don't do our parts, of us each,
No future to be blessed, we only confess, to do much more.
Children are in peril unless a purer world to herald, to reach,
Stand to demand, a cleaner land, from sea to shining shore.