Bum

A shirtless man in the shadows sits,
His flesh in scarlet cracks from winter's cold.
He's feeble and quite far from one among the wits
Yet he has for society a dreary doom foretold.

This creature, same as others of his kind,
I never shall come ten kilometers within
He's unemployed and work wants not to find,
For principles of duty have no place in minds of sin.

He stains one of his porcelain eyes with tar,
Fastens upon his ears a paint-soaked cloth.
Compassionate for him those passing him by are,
All victims of the bum's deception and his sloth.

What does he spend his "earnings" on?
He lingers long in nightclubs, drinking mugs of beer,
With fellow gangsters tortures human beings until dawn,
Then returns to his post having instilled in us the fear.

And thus the dunce's sphere of influence extends
Until it swallows yours and mine.
And all the while, our "prosperous" society pretends
That in this world are matters well and fine.

The children dance already to his tribal chants,
Mimic his hideousness, clothed in less than rags.
This bum like seeds insults of hatred plants
And places upon innocents stereotypical nametags.

He votes for President, and so does all his gang.
Without obeying laws, our system he controls.
In mankind's side he thrusts a rotting fang.
The gangrene spreads as more of us reject our souls.

Himself, he's nothing, no intellect in him at all!
He's not successful, wealthy, charismatic, free,
Yet there is but one force upon which he may call,
And it can drain all life away from you and me.