 His Mother died as he was born In a lean-to shanty of early morn. He was passed between kith and kin, Till finally no one would take him in. The mean street is where he lives Staying alive by the few that gives, Begging for bread or a coin or two, Abuse and hunger were all he knew. The beggar boy is there every day Pleading of those passing his way, "Can you spare some coins for me?" Most will look away, so not to see. No one cares for the poor waif at all They turn deaf ears to his pitiful call, He's just another beggar to annoy, Only a ragged little guttersnipe boy. Tattered clothes hang as soiled rags, His only possessions in a paper bag, No shoes on his calloused sore feet, No comfort but the filthy mean street. Empty haunting eyes in a grubby face, A broken castaway of man's disgrace, He sits on the sidewalk sadly staring, As thoughtless people pass glaring. He'll never feel love's warm glow, A Mother's caress he'll never know. As each lonely day creeps slowly past One by one he was reaching his last. He was found in front of a Church door, No one has to look at the waif anymore, On a freezing night the beggar boy died And Angel's were the only ones who cried. ©Written by: Kenneth J. Ellison 03-15-06 Return Poetry By Ken Guestbook Email Ken To send this page to someone |