The Beggar Boy

Here comes the beggar boy,
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.

by Nikesh Murali

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Comments (1)

this is so much better than my The Beggar Boy: ( I felt yours really captured the essence of beggars