Noise from automobiles fills the street
Busy men, women pace their feet
Speed on pavement call it pedestrian traffic
Yet down in lags a son of a man is terror
shaking his dirty bowl pleading for alms
To half-blind pedestrians working in firms
Cant move, talk but only gesticulate
If he offers grants, his fame would circulate
But only awaits humans with humanity
Some one who'll roll out a note not as waste but outta pity
Pity, the world has run out of the virtue
Here a pauper in the streets is a statue
Knows hunger, frustration and looks of disdain
A sad song of hate,his daily refrain
But a deadly tumour was bound to his weak frame
With it all the minute clumps of energy it claims
Soon he would bye the street he knew like a coin
With his grievances to land of joy will join
Tuesdays as the sun stood overhead,to cancer he had succumbed
Leaning on Tuskey's wall, all oblivious that a life has gone
Passers-by past the corpse as usual feigning inrecognition
Wednesday,one fly inviting another to a feast on sour spittle
Thursday, a stench seizes the street,now recognition not alittle
News to The council albeit late,they perform a burial of condescension.
By alex Buddy Moh
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