Simple
She forages freely,
no conscience at all;
hunger stabs at her gut
like a knife keenly sharpened.
Picking through garbage cans,
fish-stix and foie-gras,
the deep pangs of hunger,
the depths of despair.
Alone in the city
she's wasted and care-worn,
wishes someone would notice,
loose change would be nice.
Simple's her name,
and her disposition,
she's lost all of her spirit
panhandling for handouts.
An urchin with no dreams
and people who don't care,
she's wretched and feeble,
just curl up and sleep now.
Garbagemen find her,
she's yielded to fate;
the medics are summoned,
they're simply too late.
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