Underneath the city streets,

By the platform's edge,

Dishevelled, disgruntled, but not distant,

There sits a man in ragged sheets.

A home, cold stone beside him,

A lifetime in two bags;

Guitar in hand, he plucks a string

And sings a melancholy song.

Whilst I, besuited and in tie,

Scurry past, the words unheeded;

Glancing down, I fail to notice,

I scarcely catch his eye.

But a moment's pity stirs some sense,

And as he sings, he sings for change,

So hand in pocket, I pass him by

And throw him fifty pence.

A little over five minutes' stroll

Takes me to the sun-lit park,

Where business suits and briefcases

Hide their owners from the dole.

Could these Gods of rich desire

Create a world they did not know?

Such people talk of stocks,

But they know not how to share,

When no Rolls Royce or first class flight

Could ever feed the hungry poor.

And I listen to his song again

And know now what he meant;

When a cry for those in need

Must by all be understood;

For as he sings, he sings for change.

Embracing him, I broke my chains

And took his hand in brotherhood.