Tatters

Oh boy of the fifties born and bred, London's burning while Nero plays His strings of chord while Christians bled. Aah, memories of the good old days. Lions consumed the prisoner wretch, Encircled by thousands roaring down. Tarred and stricken as to fletch, And blasphemy adorns the Sacred Crown. Oh this bleeding Heart on Golgotha's mound Scant bone protruding from the tabernacle Where days before shared He the cenacle, Now cries of derision and mockery resound. Oh boy of the sixties shredded and torn, Fed and mutilated with wicked scorn. Left to wander and roam amidst lamps Of dull mellow yellow and begging with tramps. Hope a food for the soul and spirit, Clinging to beam of light's pure joy. The longing and yearning to dis-inherit Yet gain the Christ and swear His foy.