A child sits on a ragged stepThere heart ripped and torn
Yesterday the sun thought shine
Today it is nothing, but storms.
My mother use to have a job
My father went away
Our house was foreclosed upon
So here we have to stay.
The child see’s other kids
There Mother buys them good things to eat
But my mother can’t even buy bread
So we whimper, bulge and cry, with a painful sigh.
You ask what the child is called,
In such despair and misery
They use to call me many things
But now they just call me, America.
- HRM Deborah
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