Move on, there is nothing here
Move on, you scrummy beggar,
The bleary eyed beggar goes on,
Seeking alms in the same passive tone.
Some give it to him grudgingly,
some give it to him with a sense of duty,
Some hate and spit at him,
Some despair at his fate and move on.
Work was something he couldn't get,
theft was something he couldn't do,
Still life demanded things he couldn't forget,
thus Seeking alms drowning in the river of shame.
Hunger often knocked at his doors,
Laughing madly at his shame,
Days were now just a motion,
Daily eating out a part of his own soul.
Finally his life was no more
A mere lifeless form,
rotting in the dark retches of the city,
Ah..A meaningful life of repentance.
