Blond curls and big blue eyes,
He soon realised the futility of his cries
To a mother with no love in her heart,
Pain and suffering she would impart.

Before the age of two his back was broken,
Long before his first words were spoken.
His bruised body with festering sores,
His blood splattered on the dirty floors.

Betrayed by a system more interested in charts,
Than mending children's broken hearts.
His short life just another statistic,
Where child cruelty is going ballistic.

Repeatedly his situation was reported to those,
Responsible for acting on children's woes.
But time and again no remedy was taken,
His dangerous plight had been forsaken.

His spirit broken, his body battered
His senses numbed, his teeth were shattered.
Another child in a growing list,
Where love is shown through an adult's fist.

Written & (C) John McKay Withey 2008