In squalor children run through filthy streets,
The open cesspools of their tiny lives,
Still laughing though and smiling at the treats
That friendship has where will and love survives.
Between the running gutters of the road
Past houses filled with misery and gloom
The tourist with his face a squirming toad
Points cameras at the mothers in a room.
He smiles at them and they sometimes smile back,
He'll show these pictures to his arty friends,
Or those of children sleeping in a sack,
That look so cool through his expensive lens.
At nighttime from the clean of his hotel,
He phones his wife to check that all is well.