grief, death, to die-214442.jpg


Let me tell you about this amazing young girl,

Who should’ve grown up to be the most beautiful in the world.

Golden brown hair, a cheeky smile, dressed in red,

Her eyes would melt asbestos. She had innocent street cred.

Her name was Sarah, she was pretty as a picture.

Only fourteen, she was our non-existent little sister.

She used to hang around outside the shop I called work.

She’d be there taking the Mickey out of the one-eyed Turk.

She seemed bright and clever and acted older than her age,

The high street was her theatre, outside our shop her stage.

First day I met her she came in so I had to throw her out,

She was too young to be in there and she started to shout.

So I went outside, chatted and shook her dainty hand,

And after I’d explained, she shrugged and said, “I understand”.


I guess not long after was when she first tried crack cocaine.

She’d got it from a lad she knew who’d brought it back from Spain.

Her foster parents threw her out; she squatted on her own.

When she found out she was pregnant, the Dad left her alone.

She was scared and lonely, she suddenly looked tired.

I saw her one day outside the shop looking pretty….wired.

I heard she made fifteen. Girls that age should be in school,

But by then her life had long since obeyed any rules.

Fifteen years old but, by Jesus, she looked old!

Her once beautiful eyes had turned lifeless and cold.

With no family left, could she find someone to turn to?

One summer afternoon they found her baby at the zoo.

Later that day she thought she’d cure all her ills,

They found her on the floor, surrounded by pills,

She lasted a week in her hospital bed.

But the damage had been done. And, by now, she’s dead.

Some see that as a cop out, some see that as brave.

She should’ve had the Earth, she doesn’t even have a grave.