As the grey dawn breaks
The cold rain waits,
To wash the souls
On failure street.
Electric milkman
Crawling past,
Fails to look, and leaves, at last,
From failure street.
Hollow eyes
Arise
From filthy sleeping bags,
On failure street.
Mottled hands
Don't understand,
And search for last night's sleeping draughts,
On failure street.
Paper boys
On rusty bikes,
That will not last, just pedal fast,
On failure street.
But listen now,
And listen well,
For you might join, this living hell,
On failure street.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
