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Expensive siuts,
Cars a plenty,
Houses coming out the ying yang,
Man's money being wasted
On exotic islands.

Where are the poor people?

Living in cardboard boxes
On a dark, cold, rainy night
Freezing and starving to death.

They live out of soup kitchens,
Hold out tin cups,
Hoping that passers by
Would at least acknowledge their existance.

Sure, they may get fun of,
But, they have the right to live
Just as much as you or I.

Am I not right?

Tears stream down the faces
Of those that are forgotten.
Those whom are left behind.

Man's money
Seems to be only for the rich
And the rich only.

Money is only paper.
Lives can't be replaced.

Copyright Cynthia Jones
June.1/2006