The Gent

A Gent See I Ev'ry day doth he appear In the corner of his face Art drops of briny sorrow that adhere His grizzled brace O how sorrowful That gent weeps His sharp eyes turn dull Looking back at me the gent turns to both of his ears Complain may he but that matter does not change the years Within my perplexity I say with intensity “Force’d I, to step away from thy cursed object The object fear’d by most who connect Doth thou think of me as that? As dirty as the homeless cat? Thou art mocking me I will away from thee!” So the old gent parted his way Off to where he lay