Throw-away Baby

By Lynn Ockersz

Your solitary cry for help,

Does not seem to be carrying,

Over that watery wilderness,

From your crumbling homesteads,

And what remains of your farms,

But if help is not coming fast,

You shouldn’t be astonished,

Since yon ‘Sirs’ in the big city,

Have just crafted the epitaph,

Of the cherished welfare state,

In the manner of casting overboard,

With the dishwater of economic ruin,

A precious Baby of long-nurturing.