Victim
(John Raymond Pollard)
2004-09-13
Grand daddy died on a factory floor in an undeclared war
Between the rich and the poor. He was a victim.
And my mom was just four years old.
At home there were four more babes to feed.
Was this the price of progress, a dark day for industry?
Some would call it a crime. Who would deny it was a tragedy?
Did the world seem unfair? Did they sting with despair?
Were they grateful for welfare? Did they offer up prayers?
Were they victims?
But my mom grabbed a dream when she reached the tender age of 19.
As my dad went to war the baby ma bore began to scream.
Soldiers cut down in their prime: a crime, a tragedy.
I have my freedom and many reasons to be grateful.
I have plenty of food and a roof. Soon I hope to be debt free.
But there are many less fortunate in the human family.
The world seems blessed with abundance and cursed with endless greed.
As the pyramids rise every stone marks the lives
Given to glorify the unbridled pride of the rulers.
Every monument and temple holds secrets of many souls entombed.
Is this the price of progress; the way that it must be?
Some would call it a crime. Some define it as tragedy.
