That fella pale and wet;
Drenched in the pool of his dry tears,
Overpowered by the shadow of hopelessness,
Beautified in rags; praised by the onlookers.
That old man condemned by the past;
Those moments he refused to learn,
While there was grace of a future harvest,
And the time seeks favour from all and sundry
That three legged fella curved like the smoked fish;
Shivering in the sun like a wet cat;
Feeding in the abode of loneliness,
Fishing out grace from the void street.
That man supported by an extra leg-
Designed by the generosity of a neighbour,
Furnished by the guilt of his childhood,
Controlled by the truth of his pain.
That man who still lives among us,
Praying the part that leads to beyond is seen quickly.
That man, that three legged fella,
If not dead tonight, still have something to offer.