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
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