Make me poet laureate
For the world that writhes in pain
For the child sucked out of the womb
For the prisoner in chains

For those who die in thousands
While the rich sort out their scores
For the unknown disappeared
In those boring foreign wars.

Make me poet laureate
For the stranger in the land
For the daughter who is raped
At her father’s evil hand

For the runaway who sleeps
On a mattress made of stone
For the worker out of work
Left to waste away at home.

Make me poet laureate
For the victim no one hears
For every child that’s battered
While its screams are gagged by fear

For those too weak to argue
For those who have no tongue
For those too old to matter
In a world which loves the young.

Make me poet laureate
For the beggar at the gate
For those who cry for justice
But are told they have to wait.

Not for presidents and queens
Who are overwhelmed by choice,
But for those whose mouths are stopped -
Those who can’t afford a voice.

© Steve Turner