The streets have become sullen expanses tainted grey,
where the voices of young'uns once rang;
all that remains are barren playgrounds,
where blissful giggles sprung free on merry-go rounds.
The streets hath set a stage for these curious minds,
nourished their innocence with candyfloss, popsicles and trinkets of some kind.
Prospects aplenty beckoned yonder,
with hopeful beams surrounding their day.

                   But, that has withered away
                   like forlorn flora abandoned in wretched moors
                        ....
                  you see, this is a lament for when children were at play.

Through the oculars of a little girl, i see a story of woe;
left to scavenge for remnants no matter their source,
her strife is yet to be told.
Even the rags which rest on her skin left perpetual footprints of point road's cold.
Now the scourge of H-I can i get a Vee-ctim plucks aways at dear one's longevity;
it travels like mumba up and down her veins, popping mucous as she spits its poisonous taste
A story of woe still to be told for this little one never got to play