Half the world is fat,
half the world is thin
and half the world is
still locked out, still
trying to get in.
And the flicker flame of conscience
is an all invasive scream,
those little arms as thin as sticks,
blank eyes that haunt your dreams;
and you would not harm so lightly
the kitten taken in,
or the chance on Sunday mornings
to absolve a little sin.
Yet that envelope discarded
like a coin dropped to the floor,
becomes no more than memory,
one more pebble on the shore;
yet still the world turns endless on,
the wheels of commerce spin,
whilst half the world is still locked
out, still trying to get in.
So sleep dear child, sleep all you can,
dream every wish come true;
for this world is thin,
as thin can be
but not so thin as you.