Good People . . .
Outstretched arm holds out vulgar palmssullen faces with tearful eyes
we humbly beg, begging for jingling alms
accompanied by our rags, filth and flies
Upon your street corners we sit and wait
sometimes in bands but often alone
on the curbed side of your exulted gate
we croak our dirge on cushions of stone
But you walk on by silent and blind
blinded to our wares of crippled feet
our ragged costume sun bleached to meet
our naked souls protesting with broken wind
A coin jingles amongst its kin, fiftyone in the plate
a beggarly alm from a beggarly arm
springs a toothless smile frozen with charm
hawking our wares patiently though its late
On the face of a crested moon we retire
a nation of good beggars we truly aspire
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