A BEGGAR'S PENDULUM

Sitting there, round the corner,
Is him,
He is there everyday,
A bowl, brown and dirty,
Between his shaky legs.

He looks up as you pass,
His eyes begging for mercy,
His lips chattering and begging,
Just a shilling, he pleads,
You look down and sympathize.

Into your pocket you dive,
And bring out the ‘unwanted’ shillings,
This way and that you look,
Zap! You throw them,
Into the dirty, brown bowl.

A wide grin comes to his face,
And juts his brown buck teeth,
Thank you, he says,
By then you have long gone,
Not wanting to look back.

At the end of the day,
He gathers up his tool of trade,
His dirty, brown bowl,
And wobbles to the end of the street,
Where he will spend the cold night.

Clink, clink, he counts
The ‘unwanted shillings’,
One, two, three, he nods,
Picks up some and saunters,
To the shop for milk and bread.

Picks up the rest,
And hides them in a fold,
Of his dirty, creased garment,
Then dozes off and sleeps on the concrete,
Waiting for the break of day,
When he will start begging again.