Editor's ChoiceMusingsPoetry

The Hustle

Traders, trading asses
Alongside their goods,
Enticing men for patronage,
Lest, they have no sale.

The boy will the boil on his legs,
Chasing and trailing the trailers,
Convincing them to buy his goods,
Lest, he has no money to treat his sore.

The sun, smiling and smiling,
Scorching the beggars by the railway,
Breaking their dry skin,
Drying their lips, unpitied.

Man must hustle, he must wak!
Such is life, life is such!

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