The Poet Wears Polarized Glasses

The poet, he sat, with a pen in his hand, And cardboard, by the shop door, And his eyes only saw the polarised view, Of what people chose to ignore, The sight from his rug, from his holes in his jeans, The sight from his broken down hat, Was of the emptiest people, buried in work, Living a life in combat, Which had faded away the colour of fun, To his eyes they were all still at school, They each did exactly what they were told, Chasing the coin like a fool, And he wrote what he saw beyond their dead eyes, He wrote from his cold concrete seat, He wrote the things he loved about life, From his raw homeless spot on the street.