For the beggars on the street,

life is one restless boxing ring,

punched by drought,

uppercuted by finance,

TKO! trouble

I hope you know,

that it isn't the choice

of anyone to be smiling

at sackcloth,

but this menace,

imposes, compelled contentment

with tattered visages

It's not a glittering facade,

because when you're struck

with financial friction,

you drown in limitation,

the diversity of abilities

shrink, till you're

just an imp of misery

I just want you to

understand the beggars on the street,

who can see hunger,

laughing through

their ribs that cry visually,

sticking out,

standing out,

like they've been hung

by the persecution of life

Their lips are parched,

yes, because this is a really

common case of economic harmattan,

but they're body

burns at their being fried

in social oil

by the questions of this life,

where harshness is definitely

the frying pan.

                                          By Kakraba Afful