There he stands, with hat in hand,
by Herman Sequira
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? '