The Crying Bench
In every small place
there’s a crying bench .
In the parks dark corner where vagrants stray,
the girl child whimpers and shivers in pain.
Scared and alone she covers herself below the
bench that’s surrounded by thistle.
Momma’s gone down to make some bread and
left her baby alone to fend.
Momma don’t know that what she’s paid to do,
her daughter is forced to surrender.
Momma don’t know that the bread she makes
won’t save the child from the affliction.
All momma knows is she’s does what she does
to nourish her empty addiction.
In every small place there’s a crying bench
and a life that’s not fit for children.
© K. McGee – 2011
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