Pauper, I don’t mean offense,
But I truly pity you.
You wander the cobblestone streets
With patched together rags
And dirt covering you like ash.
No place to stay in the cold and the heat,
Hunger is a mouse scurrying after you
And life’s enjoyments fleeting.
My thoughts occasionally float
In sympathy to you.

Lady, I wish I didn't have to say this bitterly,
But your pity is rejected.
You will never understand
The suffering of the poor.
Your good intentions mean nothing
Behind your high stonewalls and manicured lawns.
I may look unfortunate
With my grimy complexion
And haphazard scraps of clothes,
But this is my life and I accept it
Along with my freedom of responsibility.