Life Goes By
I stand here in the High St., looking at all life.
by Roy Smith
Problems here, problems there, why is there so much strife?
A little boy limps past, caliper on his leg.
A little life already spoiled. Oh please Dear Lord I beg.
help him to heave a good life and know the joys of youth.
A yob pushes past, he spits at me, he really is uncouth.
A mother rushes by - four children cling to her dress,
looks of bewilderment on their faces - she couldn't care less.
An old man hobbles past, leaning on a stick.
A drunk staggers by and is violently sick -
All over the old man's trousers and shoes,
completely oblivious - he's had so much booze.
'Good morning', it's the vicar - his name is Norman Lloyd,
'Oh quick cross over', they whisper - he's the man they all avoid.
'rags and bones and all your iron', is the raucous cry
of a couple of scriffy tinkers - wandering by.
People stand and chat in the morning sun.
Children on an outing board a coach, one by one.
A dog chases a cat - it ends up in a tree.
Two sailors laugh and joke - they're home from the sea.
'they're open and about time too', goes the cry,
the street is nearly empty, at the blinking of an eye.
Where have they gone? I hesitate to say,
but the New Years sales have started today.
Slowly and thoughtfully, my homeward way I wend.
Life to me, is just a play, without an end.