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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.
