Sitting alone in this house of mine,
Watching the hands go round,
Gives me time to think sympathetically
Of those whom no haven have found.
For forty years we have supported Shelter,
Hoping that our modest mite,
Could mitigate hardship amongst those souls
Whose diminshed powers cause their plight.
And still from the battlefields they return,
Their nerves having stretched to breaking,
To add to the throng of those who leave home
Ill-equipped for the art of job-making.
Spare a thought for the damaged ones,
Crouching at night round a fire;
Cardboard boxes to keep out the cold
And a hostile world, like barbed wire.