Hundreds of lives a year

Hundreds of lives a year,

No rest for the wicked they say.

But what is so wicked about selling something to feed a baby?

When you have nothing to sell but flesh or a high,

Is that really your fault?

Hundreds of lives a year,

Thousands rotting in the cold

Or drowning in the rain.

No rest for the wicked,

No homes for the poor.

Hundreds,

Hundreds of lives a year.

Published by James J Jackson, Jr

I'm a poet and leftist political organizer from Sacramento, CA.

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