Poetry

(after William Blake)
 
In each city street there are people
who continually come and go
on their way to work, trampling with tired feet
and in some of them the spirits are low
 
as late in the afternoon they return home,
as slaves to a life that is by destiny set
and just here and there they find something wholesome
but some curse, drink and bet
 
and so life goes on
with drug peddlers that are selling their wares
and prostitutes patrolling up and down until the crowds are gone
and now and then people offer prayers
 
and I wonder what God on this earth see,
while people live in iniquity?
 
[Reference: “London” by William Blake]