The Ragpicker Boy

Who is the little boy with a sack
On his rag covered back
With hunger and lack
Written on his face
His dark complexion
Speaks of hard work done
In the society, liked by none
In a smelly smutty place

Cuts and bruises on his feet
Tied with a dirty torn sheet
Risking glass, nails and heat
Wrapped in deathly balls
For a morsel of cheap rice
Such a howling heavy price
He throws on daily game of dice
To answer life’s challenging calls

What is a school or a dream?
What is a class or a team?
What is a cake topped with cream?
His life is held by the garbage heap
His father is not on the earth
His mother toils and tends the hearth
He’s carrying his human birth
To vend it on the street cheap


Kings and queen come and go
His lot is to remain low
Whichever way the winds blow
He sleeps on the cold floor
The fence has umpteen holes
Supported by rickety poles
He is visited by moles
Lady Luck never opens the door.

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