For the ones who stagger drunk,
Down dim lit alleyways, 3 in the morning,
Past graffiti-stained walls,
Through piss scented subways,
Those who blow smoke rings at the moon.
Those, blown from one disaster to the next,
Like yesterday’s news blown in the wind,
For the ones rocking back and forth,
Cold sweat running down their backs,
Head in hands, worried for their sanity.
For those crouching in shop doorways,
Asking for spare change,
From passing strangers,
Smoking cigarette ends off the concrete pavements,
Eating leftovers from supermarket bins.
For the abusing and the abused,
For those scoring pills and powders,
For those in the aftermath of the fight,
Bruised and grazed and believing the lies,
Circled by the redness of tearstained eyes.
For those hanging around dingy flats and broken homes,
With nowhere else to go,
For the dealers, for the whores,
For the things that brought you here,
Whether you were rich or whether you were poor.
For the losing, for the lost,
For battles fought at the greatest cost,
For the countless ways, you’d wave goodbye,
For the countless reasons a new-born cries,
You’re still worth the fight to survive.