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Just Fifty Pence !

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Just Fifty Pence !

 

Unshaven, dishevelled, and no doubt hung over,

This would be tramp, or maybe a better word rover,

His greying dirty hair, in places ragged,

Face scared with his troubles and possibly jagged,

On a stick he had tied a dirty old mug,

A pair of old shoes, and a crumpled tatty rug,

His eyes were fixed but somewhat sunken,

But sensed this warrior could not be broken,

Morning he muttered to some old lady,

Can you spare me some change for a cup of tea,

She pretended to ignore, his attempted advance,

Just fifty pence is there any chance,

Begging was his means to live and get by,

This an area where he couldn’t be shy,

Most people give through sense of pity,

But there are loads like him across the city,

Each day they appear from the cold of night,

Looking such a sorry sight,

How would you feel if it were you on that floor?

Sometimes is it better to give, than choose to ignore.

 

johnsbucket

Edited by johnsbucket

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