By R. Jamerson
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those clothes, so tattered and torn.
Where did you get, such a heavy load,
a body, so weary and worn.
What put the lines upon your face,
the pain within your eyes,
The scars upon a heavy heart,
that deep within you lies.
Was it the thief who by the way,
lurks privily to snare,
Some unsuspecting traveler,
who happens by him there?
Or perhaps extortionists,
within the city streets,
Who lie in wait to spoil the lives,
of those, whom there they meet?
Oh no kind sir, it was not such,
as these you've mentioned here,
Nor those within authority,
and neither these my peers.
These wounds I bear upon my back,
this pain my soul hath rend,
Were both received - so sadly sir, in the houses..., of my friends.
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