A Sense of Poverty

Out on the road, I met a beggar,
Poorest of poor was he,
Pitying him I slipped across
A coin of fair pedigree.

He pocketed the money with a thankless smile,
And shuffled away from me,
Not content with his gratitude, I
Transfixed him with my oratory.

For hours, I expounded to him
On the virtues of Industry
And chastised him for embracing
The vice of Poverty.

He smiled and led me to a slum,
The stench of sewers hung unbearably,
He pointed out his grandchildren
Who were playing in the mud peaceably.

"Observe, sir, the merits of my vice,
Happier they are than we,
This monstrous world has tainted them not,
Innocence will keep them free."

What right have you, sir, to
Deny us our own small happinesses?

"You, sir , with your frantic shuttling
Are entrapped in a vicious puppetry,
And not content with ruining your peace,
You thrust it upon the impoverished free."

What right have you, sir, to
Deny us our little contentments?

He was getting worked up now,
I tried getting away quietly,
He caught my hand and thrust my nickel
Roughly back at me.

"I thank 'ee sir for you kindness,
But I'd rather not take your money,
I may be poor, sir, I may be weak,
But I still have some dignity."

What right have you, I ask, to
Deny us our dignity?

With that, he turned and
shuffled uglyly awaye,
And I was left with a sense of poverty,
The Nickel- I threw it awaye.