Cringed a lill more
to fit in the rag,
yes, on the pavement floor
but did I ever beg.

Whole day saw a prate in the air
hustled bustled the hoi polloi,
why junta rumbles around
not go home ‘n hearth enjoy.

I shuddered all night.

Other day re-quest for work
only to receive the daily jerks,
nothing left, yet in the flesh
bowels burning down to ash.

In the dusk, on a bench
I sat beside me with horrible stench,
nothing more than a bones pile
‘n piercing, sardonic by-passers’ smile.

They raised slogans
and dumped a future,
barred labour
and starved a creature.

Bean picker or street loafer
what profession I turn tomorrow
that is patrons’ charity
career of eternal sorrow.

God really listens to child!

I wondered all night…