Housing For The Poor Poem by James McLain

And mansions aren't for me,
the deaf cry'd out.
Make them go away the sight.
When the door way is to large
for all of us,
you must be filthy, turned away.

I smell the wholesome food,
they must have, they must throw out.
Safe in my car where I once lived,
no more, caught sleeping, eating
life, against the law.

Florida has you covered in their jails,
day by day your wasted life they say
it ebbs and flows, is bled away.
While the mentally ill must turn to drugs
and achohol to bear the brunt of hell.