Forgotten by the World

The old man sits on the wet ground.

The evening life is very loud.

He sits and stares at his pot,

Thinking back to the time he was in his cot.

 

Now, the world forgets him,

Now and again someone throws a coin.

He grunts "Thank you."

The pot is far from new.

 

The rain falls on his hair,

He huddles up to protect his lair.

Sometimes people stare.

They don't care.