The Beggar

By Othelia

With tattered clothes and naked feet,
He emptied his life upon the street;
A dusty sack of torn,stained wool
which burdened him with endless pull.

Onto the cobbles fell the poor tramps pride,
His life's belongings he clutched with pride.
Upon the soft-woolen breeches he rested his head
and the hole in the ground was his make-shift bed.

The salvaged net-bag held a stale bun or two,
and from under his coat,a dog peered through.
A small,blue ragball he held in his hand,
His only comfort in an ignorant land.

Laughing and jeering,some wealthy men
kicked at the beggar and tossed him a sen.
The tramp clutched the coin, and of his pride,
I wondered where it must hide.
Away in the darkest caves of his mind,
I puzzled if it would ever find
A way to escape this tormented living,
Survivng from twisted,pityless giving.

The beggar could hear,in his trickful mind,
The laughing and jeering of the passers by.
He lay there still and cold as dead,
And pulled up the covers,over his head.

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