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?

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