He’s waiting; soul’s melting in the sun’s torment,
Drenched in the pool of his dry tears;
He’s graced as he walks with same unwanted ornaments.
What good can be born of a crowned looser, who cares?
He’s praised by the street with the sight of disgust.
Yes he’s decorated in rags and naked footed in the cold.
There he tarries, feeding, hither-to-free to be just,
T’was unknown, now a dream of nightmare he can’t hold.
He’s a law abiding hustler searching for a destination.
He’s living a patched dream, faced with long-termed puzzle.
He’s hopeless, but prays daily for a garbage transformation.
What more can be done in the dump with a customize sickle?