Piling mounds of plastic bags

Piling mounds of plastic bags.
Rotting heaps of oily rags.
Sifting ,rifting weathered hags.
Cut and scarred by piercing jags.

Baking days and restless nights.
Bickering bouts and endless fights.
Talk of walks and animal rights.
Acrid smoke and filtered lights.

Gov, they say! Blares a bountiful crop.
Ouch! Damned nail in that broken mop.

Crowing rooks are the only birds.
Barking dogs are intently heard.
Decked up sahib’s that never erred
at foraging kids spit nasty words.

Ages it’s been since I’ve been fed.
Bare my feet and bare my head.
It’s almost June and I will be bled.
At times I wish I’d rather be dead.

Gov, they say! Blares a bountiful crop.
Ouch! Damned nail in that broken mop.

Yesterday I found a reasonable hat.
Hadn’t it been for the scurrying rat,
the pestering drone of a shiny gnat.
Might’ve stumbled on a matching mat .

The wail of the preacher hauls me up.
In vain I search for the empty cup.
I clutch my tummy and want to sup.
Wish I’d slept and not woken up.

Gov, they say! Blares a bountiful crop.
Ouch! Damned nail in that broken mop.

That grumpy man he strangely hops.
Leans on the stick and the leg he lops.
His tatters bound with fraying ropes
Painfully bent at the bin he gropes.

Cushioned and soft is where I lay.
Just as it was when I slept on hay
My own home on a patch of clay.
Open spaces for my kids to play.

Gov, they say! Blares a bountiful crop.
Ouch! Damned nail in that broken mop.

Now home is here, this festering heap.
On smoldering scrap and offal steep.
Damn sulking kids they always weep.
Had some crumbs and I want to sleep.

My aching limbs are sore and frail.
If only some one heard me wail.
At a feverish pitch I rant and rail.
Add more pages to my woeful tale.

Gov, they say! Blares a bountiful crop.
Ouch! Damned nail in that broken mop.