rough (not very good) poem I went through a bit of a poetry stage a while ago, this is one of the poems I wrote, the big issue is a magazine homeless people in britain sell.
Pathos for the (big) issue
Past pride?
He’s a Mister Hyde
Jekyle long gone
His face forlorn.
So! his elixir?
Chalk fixer
His youth spent
By its alcohol content
His mind rent
This man on the street
No shoes on his feet
He begs for my money!
I rhyme the retort ‘you must be funny’
Run for my money
Excuse the punnie
I stop a guilty man
Could’ve gained a fan
If I hadn’t ran
Should’ve gave him money.
Guilty.
Ain’t it funny
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