Something caught my eye last night
I saw something that I might write
If born into a different home
Then cast out poor, cold, and alone
The writer of it, long since gone
It seemed his words had still lived on
On cardboard did his thoughts remain
Despite Manchester’s heavy rain
He’d asked if he could earn some alms
Through poetry not outstretched palms
I walked back, to a man I’d passed
It’d been a while, since I gave last
I gave him, I believe, a pound.
And made sure to observe the ground
In case, I passed one more l’d missed
Old man, lost soul or poor artist.