The Beggar Boy
Here comes the beggar boy,
by Nikesh Murali
His face betrays a hapless ploy.
His thin, scarred hands outstretched,
Palms like a bowl of skin upheld.
Burrows run down his tearful eyes,
Sores even the bravest would despise.
A few coins tinkling in his pocket,
Dark and anguished his sockets.
Fleas rose from his eyebrows.
As if from a decaying dog.
A nauseating odour rose,
As if he were a bog.
Pathetic a cry erupts,
So sordid it disrupts.
Blatant recurring requests.
My hand reaches into a basket.
Can a pleasant scent erase,
This living portrait of disgrace.
I hang my head in shame,
Before the beggar boy lame.