There was an old woman who lived in her shoes,

Just held together by sewings and glues

She sat on the curb line, begging for bread,

Given a bagel and coffee instead

She had many children, but nowhere to go

Her shopping cart home and a backpack in tow

A tarp in her bag and a tear in her heart,

“The story’s the same, but different in start”

She’d lived and loved and laughed and guffawed,

Tried to be perfect but found she was flawed

A human in nature and human in thought,

Strugg’ling and fighting and lying for naught

Whipped very soundly and sent off to bed

Clean Street Crusaders, “She’s better off dead”

Grapp’ling composure, sun and heat in her name

Perforated panhandler preaching, “We’re all the same”