They call me a beggar; they call me a street kid.

Oh yes, they call me a hobo that belongs with nobody.

I am painted as a criminal, because of my integrity, within my humanity.

My heart aches with pain and sorrows.

My tears flow like winter rain across my face.

Ocean of tears soak themselves round about my pillows,

Every day, I am treated like a dog amongst my own race.

I waited for death but it never came, those who still lives die slowly.

Poverty came and took my fellows away, with broken heart’s.

It came and separated mankind from their own families.

Those who succeeded and got their breakthroughs,

Left unsaid and thought it not robbery to mock those who are still trying.

Begging is my survival, hunger is my fear and faith is my salvation.

No matter what happens, I am not going anywhere.

I am going to fight, until I become the last man standing.

I am fearing so called poverty.