Lay on the graffiti sprayed park bench the homeless drug addict
pale, withered his face, stained and tattered his clothes
had he been a teacher, tradesman, bank manager
how then did he lose his way do you suppose?
Just out of prison once more, unwilling to learn lessons
physically, sexually abused in there then freed but still coping with strife
who was to care for him, have any compassion to spare for him
or would he end up on the blade of a knife?
He strolls through the bus station, looking to score again
no shortage of dealers about, more than happy to openly sell
Heroin, Cocaine Amphetamines, whatever his needs demand
to temporarily close the lid on his personal hell.
When darkness falls, finds him slumped in an empty shop doorway
syringe punctured arm by his side, drooping, his head
would you have passed by him, or stopped, let your heart cry out for him?
remembering the the words ' there but for the grace ' because you could easily be him instead!