She

She walks like a ghost
In a world of her own
Her hair is messed up
And her clothes, they’re torn.

Her stature is small
And frail she looks
Gullible that she is
Always bullied by crooks.

Nothing to call her own
Just a corner down the lane
Drown into her eyes
If you wish to see her pain.

She lives on the hope
That God’s children are good
If not some money
They’ll give her some food.

She mumbles to her self
And people call her mad
They ridicule and condemn
This woman, so sad.

No one really bothers
Not one ever cares
All they have for her
Are hard inhuman stares.

But she is far humane
Than these people, and how,
Shares her little grub
With a dog and a crow.