FREE AT LAST.

FREE AT LAST.



A shadowed silhouette is seen
Through ev'ry flimsy window screen
Of tattered curtains made of lace,
A moving form without a face.

In this dark house, who knows who dwells?
For no one dares to ring the bells.
Homeless hobos, the lost and poor
Are never welcome at this door.

So many years, it's been this way
The portal closed by night and day.
For that's the story which was spread
By dwellers in this street - long dead.

A movement? Could that be a beam
Of light appearing at the seam
Of solid oak that never budged
Or opened ? Was it he who judged?

A gentle face appeared before
The lonely street folk at the door.
Held in his outstretched hands were bowls
Of food and drink for hungry souls.

He said he dared not venture out
Beyond the door for fear the shout
Of master, mean, who had forbad
He minster to the poor and sad.

The miser now was dead you see.
The servant man at last was free
To tend the poor who now were living
In Turnberry Street on this Thanksgiving.