The Workhouse Child | Nemo James

The Workhouse Child

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Behind the cold and tear stained door
sitting on the cold stone floor
a workhouse child lives alone
where he comes from no one’s sure
he commits the crime of being poor
and dreams of parents he’s never known
he’s just a child, six years old
just a child, scared and cold
punished for the sins of others
forgotten by a distant mother
who turns away the workhouse child

here’s fifty pounds of bones to crush
it seems that there’s a sudden rush
when work is done you will be fed
you shall not talk you shall not laugh
you shall not rest a minute’s half
your spirit’s ours till you are dead
you’re just a child, of little use
just a child, that’s no excuse
and should you disobey the rules
created by the minds of fools
you’ll suffer more, you workhouse child

I’ve heard it said that one day soon
men will fly and touch the moon
and machines will live yet shed no tears
but will you never understand
all we ask is to touch the hand
that reaches out from one who cares
he’s just a child, his needs are small
just a child, too weak to crawl
and you who for the stars compete
while crushing those beneath your feet
don’t forget the workhouse child

in the big house on the hill
where riches seldom ever spill
the workhouse mother lives alone
she looks for lines upon her face
the idle rich lives in disgrace
with heart that long has turned to stone
life’s such a bore, she cries aloud
then sews some more, the tiny shroud
this land of plenty, wild and free
is cursed by those too blind to see
the horrors of the workhouse child