Roy Smith Poems

I stand here in the High St., looking at all life.
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.
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Christmas used to be a wondrous time,
never would you hear of a crime.
Doors were left open, for all to come in.
Those who were fat helped those who were thin.
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