Old man, lost soul or poor artist

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.

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