Batcher
We domicile here
Right in the wing of squalor
Alas poverty has made war on us
Heat of the sun runs in me
Like playing clouds before rainfall
The sun on the top of our roof wants
To darken my heart
The rain stretch to cloth me with cold
We are alone in this poverty race
No one comes close
Our home is dark with emptiness
Poverty fruit of humbleness
From my face I am tired
My spotting desire is expired
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