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I don't pretend to be a Keats
or a Shelley or a Shakespeare—rhymes
just pop into my head sometimes, and
I scribble them down on whatever
piece of paper comes to hand. 
It's fun and it's just for me, but now and
then, people ask to read what
I have written. 



Why do burglars rob us?
Why do they have to steal?
Don’t they know the trauma?
That we, the victims feel?

Our houses have been violated.
We feel anger, hurt and pain.
Afraid of going out
And coming in again.

Are they devoid of feeling?
Or is it they just don’t care.
They see a TV, radio
And see rich pickings there.

They take our precious mementos,
A photograph, a prayer.
That always gave us comfort
In times of great despair.

Don’t they know the Christmas story?
A time of peace and goodwill?
Or is it all they want are things to steal
And keeping clear of the Bill.

© Mary Davies

Other Poems

Taxpayer's Lament
Busy Bee
Painted Lady



   All words and pictures on these pages © 2014 Mary Davies, Tewkesbury, UK  





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