ANDREW BLAKEMORE (01/01/1966 / BIRMINGHAM)
The Red Balloon
A little girl stands lost within
The crowded market place,
She clutches to the piece of string
Tied to her red balloon.
She ran away from home that morn
Now lost and all alone,
The tears run down her rosy cheeks
She has nowhere to go.
Her coat is holed her skirt is torn
Her laces are untied,
Her blouse is stained and dirty
For she dwelt in poverty.
And beaten every day she lived
She could not take no more,
Her mother drank her life away
Her father was unknown.
So now her precious red balloon
Is all she has in life,
That the rag and bone man gave her
For her sodden handkerchief.
Amidst the noise and bustle
Of the town that does not care,
She tries to steal an apple
But the trader slaps her hand.
She bows her head and walks along
Still hungry and forlorn,
Yet no one stops to help her
And continue on their way.
Surrounded by the mass of legs
And laden shopping bags,
She's pushed and jostled back and forth
As if an old rag doll.
She's knocked down to the pavement
And lets go of her balloon,
Then watches as it drifts unto
The clouds high up above.
It's carried on the winter wind
And soon blows out of sight,
And with it goes her hopes and dreams
Of happy childhood days.
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