@Stevnjr 16 October 2020 more from that month

Sons of poverty

Each day we sit asking alms, a penny we barely get dipped into our palms; Mama and Papa, nowhere to be found, I'm not sure we've got a background. The bridge we've made our home, We just sit there or sometimes roam; Deaf ears turned to our pleas, Some see us and flee, Cos they feel we're with a disease; Little do they know our pains they increase. They call us the sons of poverty, Sometimes nicknamed a nonentity; This is what we were born into, The pain we feel is not very little.