Their worries are theirs
With none to take a call
And come to console or care
With full details in hand
On what has ailed for long
And what could heal or help
Only to let them learn
They are different and lowly
And every way they must
Wallow in misery and wants
With pale faces and sunken
Eyes and bellies to the back
Pasted in a curious way and
Arms stretched to beg alms
From the very people whose
Pomp and pride are these
Lowly people’s charities only
To acknowledge which the
Heart of gratitude and love
Is utterly lacking to the
Dismay and disgust of all.
Only if once on a fine day
Those charities are heeded
And the choking guilt is out
To recompense for the loss
To those forgotten masters
Doing them a good turn due
For long perhaps in some
Little degrees service sure
As needed would be given
To steal away their worries.