It's Just Hard Luck! Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

The face of poverty is here again.
The silent vagrant without a friend
Sits cross-legged, watching businessmen
In black suits and ties condescend

Their needs, filling pockets out of greed
They aren't moved by the homeless.
They all stand together, black millipede.
Looking at you like your dead begonias.

They aren't bothered that your livelihood-
It was destroyed; they made a fast buck.
Let's not kid ourselves; there's no brotherhood.
When they look at you, it's just hard luck.

Oh, and if you're lucky, they might just put
A few old silver coins in your flannel cap
Maybe enough to feed that bed companion
That sad old greyhound dog sat on your lap.
Have a nice day, sir! Don't forget to come back.