Feel for the Beggar and King

We raise him high out of trust and fear,
No matter where or when he appears.
Each generation stands to salute its king,
Salute his hired knives and seek his blessings.

We feel love, pride, hate, fear and awe,
Voices of sanity drown in the insane hurrahs.
But as soon as his fat old neck snaps,
All of us cry as we lower our caps.

If only we felt sorry when the king was alive,
Sorry for his soul and how his demons survive.
The world will have better kings with reigns
Of love, peace, smiles and zero pain.

Each street has its dirty old beggar,
A twitching man guarding his little acre,
We despise him out of fear and disgust,
Blow him out of our way like dirt and dust.

No point in giving him his little treat,
We just call him a sick lying cheat,
Hard words and advice is all we give,
About working life and being productive.

Next day we find the old man lying still,
Hungry body shaped like a burnt out hill.
We shake our heads and a tear escapes our eye,
Never said hello, now want to say goodbye.

If only we felt sorry when the beggar was alive,
Sorry for his soul and how his body survives.
The world will have less beggars walking by,
With dying bodies and countless fake alibis.