Bright flashing smiles, each with a little outstretched hand,
Tiny maws gaping wide, in a row the beggars stand.
I reach into my pocket to meet their loud demand.

Though no one really cares, death is common down this lane.
Seeing it, some curse and some pony up more change
But they sleep soundly every night—it caused them no real pain.

Some I scorn quite openly, disinterest in my eye.
I pay them less attention than I would a buzzing fly.
Others though, entreat me so, and these I can’t deny.

One, he is my special friend; I see him every day.
I shake his hand. We talk for hours; then I go on my way.
I leave him there with all the rest to clamor for his pay.

And when I go, I feel it’s I that still desires more,
For though his stories stay the same, he never is a bore.
I do it all to see him speak two words of praise: High Score.