The night is long for those that want to roam,
without the warmth and comfort of home.
Fingers frostbitten, and limbs with cramp,
No money in their pockets, of clothes that are damp.
Where will they find, their next hot meal,
out of a dustbin, beg or steal.
Who will give them, bed and board,
a hostel or a hospital ward.
Is there no room at the inn, for these lost souls.
For whom the "Bell Never Tolls"
Yet their is not one of them, that looks for pity.
These Lasses and Lads of "Cardboard City"
"This poem was written for the Homeless at Christmas"
