The Poor Boy's Tale

The grey-haired by on our streets With rags hanging his shoulder as his only cloak Every night on banana leaves he sleeps; He has no crump nor cakes let alone a glimpse of hope All day his leg sweeps back and forth the town He is like a rat beside little folks that are highly privileged; The mental sculpture he carved and his vocal paintings are tied down His label and packages are caged for he is not long legged. He has got no lamp to see-through the dark path of life Summer rods scold his head and keep him upset; And winter drops spanks his nerves for he is got to place to hide, He never smiles and never stops to fret. He has no idle hands for he claps for the fighting hens Even at night he is busy killing mosquitoes until kills no more; For all these jobs, he is not paid a mite let alone pence, Day in day out he wakes up to be weak and poor. When the cock crows he would not wake up For he knows not what the day may bring; The songs of the sparrows he prays would not stop, For they make him sleep with ease as a king. Behold a playwright who watches the melodrama of the sparrows While he has got golden, play let right on his tableland: Who will get him out of the city of shadows? To make him known that his destiny lies in his hand.