Epitaph For A Dead Statistic Poem by Jeff Stoddart

Stranger pass by my garden gate and hurry on home for the hour is late,
Soon twelve o'clock will change the date and it be morrow
And you must sleep and then awake, to toil and sorrow

Whatever happens to be your lot, you really couldn't care one jot
If the ice be cold or the sun be hot, it's not your bag
And watching thousands starve, a tiresome drag.

Have you ever seen a displaced child, whose face is gaunt, whose eyes are wild
Who tries to speak, and is reviled, do they make you sick
When you see their face in your Sunday Times, does your conscience prick..?

Little black boy scrabbles round, and in the dirt some rice he's found
Tries to speak, can't make a sound but gives new hope
Another hour upon his cross.........a yard of rope.

So stranger close my garden gate and hurry on home for the hour is late
And fill your heart with love...not hate, melt in the night
For the problem after all is not your fight......you coward! !