The mob’s as grey, like homes they build,
shovelling all the lost,
killing dreams, free of guilt,
raising every cost,
but when they up, their heads from ground,
a little smile gave,
from a friend, that they had found,
a single guy who waved.
The mob’s as red, like fires they stoke,
warming everywhere,
fresh air, recycled with their smoke,
they cough, as they care,
yet in the fog, their wafting clears,
to see him acting brave,
mopping up, all the tears,
the single guy who waved.
The mob’s as black, like graves they dig,
smothering their short lives,
their strength is like, a broken twig,
a symbol of their times,
just before their eyes shut,
they ask to be saved,
“but it’s too late, to heal their cut”,
says, single guy who waved.