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THERE LIVED A BEGGAR LONG AGO
There lived a beggar long ago
Of great and utmost fame,
Who feared the Lord and content lived
Although he suffered pain.
Quite fair at birth, with sepia eyes
Gazed little Lazarus;
Then suffered he a skin disease
That covered him with sores.
The sun had tanned him through the years
And left him chocolate,
The sores that plagued him made him thin
And feathery in weight.
Laz’rus was such a holy man
But wretched as a rat,
He couldn’t own a shoe or tie
And never wore a hat.
Quite impov’rished and lacking friends
No balm could he procure,
The dogs they came and licked his sores
But Hope made him endure.
His forlorn house was made of bricks
Like rusted zinc in hue,
On coffee stones laid he his head
The quiet night all through.
For bed he had a bale of straw
Naught else could he afford,
Save for his faded brown parchments
By which he sought the Lord.
A certain man lived next to him
Who dined on quail and wine,
So rich was he his purple robes
Were made of linens fine.
This robust man whose skin was bronze-
And bald and round his pate-
Who seldom smiled nor helped the poor,
Was least compassionate.
The beggar came each day to beg
And laid beside his gate,
He longed for crumbs that fell from plates
Yet such he never ate.
And so it was that Laz’rus died
Of hunger, pain and blight,
But where he lay his peaceful face
It shone with wondrous light.
They carried him the winged cherubs
Ascending up on high;
His crown, of jasper, draped in white
Was Abram sitting nigh.
Such honour great did he receive
That righteous man and poor,
Whose body knew no grave or tomb
But blest for ever more.
Not quite longer, the rich man died,
Quickly they buried him,
(Who ne'er hoped for the World to come
But lived his life in sin.)
And lo, he opened up his eyes
Tormented in a flame,
He gained the world, its glory all
But lost his soul in vain.
The flame was deep mahogany
He looked so pale and lean,
And there he groaned in pain and want
The recompense for sin.
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