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Conscience Clear

There he stands, with hat in hand,
A pitiful sight to see.
Once blond hair now dirty brown,
And tattered dungaree.

Tough luck, you think, as you approach
This remnant of a man.
With scornful look, you try to keep
As distant as you can.

'I'm sure he must deserve this life,
He must have done some wrong.
How I wish he'd go away,
Why won't he move along? '

And then he speaks through rotted teeth;
A plea for just a dime.
You really wish the bus would come,
It must be late this time.

Then something deep inside your mind,
A voice you've heard before
Says, 'Help this poor and wretched soul,
You'll be repaid for sure.'

'How much to give? you contemplate,
I guess a dollar's fair.'
'Bless you, ' he says, and leaves you with
A conscience pure and clear.

You get home to your fancy meal
And have a cup of tea,
Then slip beneath your satin sheets
And think, 'What's bothering me? '

by Herman Sequira

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