Foreign Aids Poem by John Thorkild Ellison

The little girls with music in their hair
Are collecting mice in tiny tins for Jesus;
They fall asleep in the armpits of despair
And die all at once of desperate diseases.

What shall we do to slake their drowning thirst?
They don't want the waters of our pity, that's for sure!
Look at them as they beat their fists on the stubborn earth,
Collecting old sins for Jesus with Mozart in their hair!

Perhaps you should carve their solitude out of anger;
You can't eat poems or live on propaganda!
The Church of God will split the world apart
Before it feeds these little girls with ashes or moonlight.

Will anyone forgive us for our lust
As we twiddle our thumbs in air-conditioned offices?
The little girls had begged for truth or happiness
But we robbed them of their virginity and buried them in dust.