The Little Man
There is a care in the illiterate mind
Who sells pepper and salt
For food on the king's table
The elixirs to the pangs of starvation.
The monger sells fish fresh and fried
A lover of fish and the stench insult
For meals delectable
A relish lend for man's consumption.
What of the bald and simple butcher?
Who has learnt the ways of meat
He oozes the smell of dung
For teeth hails and chewing prides.
The cobbler on his dock's stretcher
Saves soles to mend and to knit
He sweats between the whistles of a song
For feet in giant strides.
The young seamstress in the corner
Stitches clothes' wears and tears
For fads of newness and time
That beckon the eyes of admiration and envy.
The love of the bus driver and owner
Who serves lives and dares road fears
He beats distance at speed and prime
For destinations at an unworthy levy.
The mechanic dexterity and sacrifices
Who desires dark paints and oils
Lends therapy to auto sickness
Aids to waiting legs and hope.
The news in the vendors' hands and orifices
Printed-balm for knowledge-thirsty boils
Crossing in swifts… painless
For a penny newspaper to live and cope.
Should we around in fancy suit
Judge and plague their lives with guilt?
Should not the little man
Be worthy of respect and a look of human?
Should we not hail them shoulder high
And pelt not their choices with a terrible sigh?
The little man maybe prone to repel
He is our dome and survival temple.
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