Dungbeetles and Poverty

"Sir" want me to call something -- A name? Well call then what you can. Am I worth naming "sir" !! call any name. My mother said, I was blesses by rain water through our thetchet roof first day I was born, Caught up with something called 'Pneumonia'. However, I survived a life -- One that a catfish has (a cat has nine lives); Or, a dungbeetle. My father could never feed us well, Using up the drops of sweat after the pawnbroker. My mother's tear never dried from her cheeks, As she kept on fighting with odds bits every single day. My father poured all his life's rage on the poor little lady everyday -- Bashed, fisted, kicked, lashed, slapped, pulled, drugged And she died. Police came and handcuffed him; I known nothing of him since then. I just know, when my small little house was subided in Padma (a river) Five small children (including me) of my impoverished mother came to the town. Fance around of Polithin, A small mosquito net, where other people heaved and paid my aunt; We were kept out, under the open sky then, Till the summertime. One day I got lost deliberately; I know nothing of them everafter -- Nor should I try. I am a 'rickshawpuller' brother I neither have a name, nor can remember what my parants gave. No connection, no memory, no place to live I came here for easy money; Pulling the passengers on a steep road, heaving chest heavily While they are kissing each other on the seat. I grin and keep quiet. I don't know how old I am, where will I go, Or, even, why am I created for! I gamble, smell opium at night and sometimes take girls on road. Well "Sir", one day my passenger kicked me For, I charged too much; Called my mane with many more street-rhymes; Lastly called me 'dungbeetle' He came to the point after long time With his nimble choppy rhyme Gave me a name I was looking for That goes with ruthless poverty, and the poor.