The orphan with the torn stockings,
sits on the steps of a bombed out house,
the war and its pain is no more,
her parents no longer around to fed her,
no excuse in complaining,
the daily chores need to be done,
she sits there on the steps darning her stockings,
there is no time or need for fun,
a passer-by stops and donates bread,
a gift accepted but never asked for,
a thank you and a smile from truthful eyes,
not her style to ask for more.

Time passes by and here we are today,
another child on graffiti strewn steps,
playing on her freshly bought smart phone,
maybe a game or maybe in chat,
she looks no one ever in the eyes,
when she talks she mutters some lies,
detached from all those around her,
no “thank you” only me and me,
the important things are too much fuss,
sitting before us in this modern age,
a spoilt, undeserving little brat,

back now to the poor and pleasant,
the orphaned girl with the stale bread,
she is happy with this small token,
grateful that she has been fed,
meanwhile the modern girl,
only wishes for some fast food,
then she will only eat half of it,
with no thanks at all how rude,
they say we are evolving
We are technologically ahead,
but I pine for the old and poor days,
instead of being empty and brain-dead.
©D.Hobson October 2013