The Orphan

I rest half dead on the street, aside the yelling dog, surviving the gutter's stinky treat, i do shiver to the chilling fog. I pick up the roadside rag, fill my tummy with the roadside stale, am thrown aside by the vendors harsh drag, depressed and disheartened, i turn pale. I get pitied for the jobs i do, I polish the rich man's boot, and tie his laces too, living i make in no other route. I cry to the fullest with the wall, when a kid yells out in pain "mom", soon after a fall, Woes i share, with the next sitting tom. People to dust my bruises are none, not an asset, i call it my own, I feed on the leftover when the riches are done, with my head always down. #PSM