Standing by a traffic stop
Scratching at his lice filled hair,
Glancing at the traffic cop
Ragged clothes and shoulders bare.
Baksheesh was his constant cry
Tapping on each window pane,
Not much cash, but have to try
Avoid the bashing and the pain.
From his owner’s greedy hand
Gets some shelter, little food,
Pressed in with this beggar band
Syndicate’s this captive brood!
Rural children on the run
Came to city hope held high
Told that city lot of fun,
Now they wish that they could die.
Syndicate of cruel men
Groom these children for their trade,
Some disfigured, only then
Maximize the money made.
Set a goal for each new day
Money payment for their keep,
Find and beat them if they stray,
From exploitation money reap
Such their life till early die
City streets their only fare
Hear no sympathetic cry
Most have other things to care.
© Copyright Ian Grice,
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