There, still at your door
Curled and helpless, lies the beggar
Mournful and mumbled is his speech
Planned to attire your attention
Full of holes and shreds, his garments
Designed to awaken your mercy
His hands reach out to you
Meticulously humble is his voice
Wretched and mauled are his lips
Just as his spirit looks
Broken after all these lost battles
Against himself and versus God
Murky skin and tangled hair
A dirty black mass of wool
Falling in locks, in strategic disorder
O’er the face they’re supposed to protect
While he looks down at you
And waits for your alms

 
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