beggars

These beggars I see in the door

Are not the same as those before

In every town and every city

Modern down and out seek pity

No longer the casualties of war

Destroyed by carnage and gore

We sent them off to fight for us

When broken shells they disgust

In my youth the down and outs

That Orwell wrote so much about

Had their mind and body destroyed

Could not be gainfully employed

What war casualties are these?

With begging bowl and dog of fleas

On heroin and alcohol they suckle

Under our modern life they buckle

These young, our damaged seed

The casualties of our greed

They lost all not for liberty

But the evils of our society