A CANOPY FOR PATER
A man under a canopy,
The canopy wasn't rugged,
Besides his heart was.
His children left him solely,
He lives by his own bootstraps,
With a hardened heart but enervated roof.
He rounds with his carry-all,
Crowd mind's- eye a bag of waste,
He hangs for bread on consorts,
Who propose packed ones,
Trust the bag was earnings,
With thoughtless yield in a beggared garb.
He piles up from waste,
Earned in a busted box of iron,
The iron was full of coins,
Which sounded besides the crowd.
It thinks he is delicate and sober,
But he, full-blown and down to earth.
The herd assumed self-centered and inhuman,
By his gusto and coiffure, besides
He was always human when he spoke.
His phrases and manners consistently flaunted humanity,
Bagging bucks was nest egg in an iron case,
Reasoned awful, by kinfolks.
A gilt-edged hombre appeared vile but hushed beyond,
Did he picked the waste? no, rather he collected it,
Did he earned money? no, rather he saved it,
For whom did he do, for himself...! being deep-pocketed?
Or for the inheritor who marooned him...
He saved to save a life who saved him,
His savior, who shelled out a canopy for Pater.