At the fading of the autumn dusk,
The silent bugles call no more
The men who went out on parades,
But did not then come back from war.
Against the window falls the pounding rain,
The white-noise snare of drizzling mist.
The little twinges of light, wrought pain,
On the features of cold faces kissed
By anaesthetising, torpid vapour
Sapping heat from what skin is bared,
Caught out with frustrated incredulity
They always expect it but’re so unprepared.
Presented as if left in stocks,
For passersby to leer and judge
For living in a cardboard box.
To those who pass, it’s no life to live,
Good to do naught but take,
But told you have naught more to give,
And reminded so each time you wake.