Come, come, come out into my home.
The street for my table, a doorstep for my bed.
Say say say, listen to my poem.
You look right through me, you turn away your head.
Wandering from park to park , just looking for some peace. Pushed at and shoved, beyond compassion’s reach.
You tell me I am free, to get what I deserve. But when I ask for work, my voice can not be heard.
You are not like me, with your take home pay. But you are like your neighbor, laid off yesterday.
Went to you classes, took all of your tests. Did all you asked of me, tried my very best.
Found me a job, did what I was told. My work was sold to others, now I’m getting old.
Shoes have holes in them, spirit becoming worn. Clothes that are ragged, my dignity severely torn.
My life’s in a shopping cart, my hopes are in despair. A world torn and ragged, with dreams beyond repair.
Come Come Come, out into my home.
by Glen Bartholomew