People Of Poverty Poem by Timothy Faboade

They are the flags of the streets,
They are the glories of the roads
Which every nights with dirty sheets
They flood with their heavy loads.

Their sojourn begins in the morning
Which full of nothing but despair,
The cloudy day ends with mourning
When a pair of them pay death's fare

The sun rises and sets on their heads
Wobbly like a gunned antelope in wild
They stagger to their eye-soring beds
With a prayer to God, their lone Guide.

Their foods are the contents of bins
Which they struggle to vainly get
And grab the crumbs with their grins.
Like Lazarus' their lives are set.

They make the rich-rex eyes so ill
When in the sheer shabby shrouds,
Coats that costs them the least bill,
With which they are broadly bound.

The creacky bridge gives them house,
There they put to rest their woes
For a while with no worry or grouse
Because unto poverty they bow.

Their tattered clothes billow in the sky
When an angry, hexed wind whirls,
Howls where they sickly stand by
And some like weak snakes curl.

Upon them should be no blame
They are designed for what to be
Yes, designed for no honour or fame
Against poverty they have no gree.