(This is a rough draft of a song I'm working on. You're getting the edited version...lol! All stories in the song are taken from actual events)

Far From Washington

He puts his head in his calloused hands
Yet another bill to pay
And the check that he makes working down in the mines
Won't last another day.

The baby's wearing shop rags for diapers
Because the washing machine gave out
And through the thin walls of the apartment
He can hear the neighbours shout.

But you'll never hear his story,
His song will never be sung,
Because he lives a life
So far from Washington

The social worker came to their apartment
Said they'd take the baby away
If they didn't buy some furniture
To fill up the empty space.

But the social worker wasn't there
When they'd moved three months before
With no truck, just a child's wagon
To carry their things to their door.

And you'll never hear their story,
Their song will never be sung,
Because they live their lives
So far from Washington.

Her baby died on Monday
Just a month of live he'd led
And the heartache on their faces
I never will forget.

He could have been treated
If they'd only had money to pay
But since they were nothing but working class joes
They stand by their baby's grave.

It wasn't meant to be this way
No mother should bury her son
And lives should not be taken
Especially when they are so young

Now she's weeping for her baby
A life that could have been saved
As she collapses on the grass
As she walks from the grave

But they'll never hear her story,
Her song will never be sung,
Because she lives her life
So far from Washington

Politicians are nothing but preachers
Saying what you want to hear,
But when a child cries in the night,
They're not there to give you their ear.

Politics are their religion,
Their Bible the almighty buck;
Well, they'll kiss you on the forehead,
And then they'll wish you good luck

It's time to tear down their altars,
Smash their idols on the ground,
Tell 'em all to hit the road
And run 'em out of town.

Until they hear the voice of the people
And listen to their cry
Let's kick them all to the curb
And hang 'em out to dry.

It's time to tell their story,
Time for their song to be sung,
Long past time for their voices
To be heard in Washington.