As I walk down the street,
It isn't what you'd call neat,
There are many adults,
It's really no ones fault,
But something makes me sad,
It's worse than bad.
Skin and bone children,
Some one should heal them,
But I think they would,
If they could,
With none of the light,
It gives me a fright.
As I walk the streets of London,
It's something I'm not quite fond of,
It honestly
Scares me
So much I let them have all my money
In my wallet.
Now I'm one of the boned children,
Hurried In the ground.
I guess I know now why they call them hurt children.
