Sometimes the words they go on strike,
Picket signs, chanting vulgarities,
Themes revolve around the overwork and underpaid,
We both can learn a thing or two,
Without me, their meaning would never be heard,
Without them I’d have nothing to say,
Sad as a pauper begging a king for a half eaten bagel,
Looking down at the scowling and the blood shot eyes,
The laughter echoes all about,
From the corner shops to the street bazaar,
I never look up as they berate me so, under lights, over glow,
Just praying when they leave that bagel will be close,
To where I wish to be,
And then it was, A half they did not leave
No bagel, no donut, no biscuit or crumb,
Instead I found an entire basket of bake goods,
Hidden behind where I stood, I was grateful, I was glad,
But around the corner a plentitude stood,
I closed my eyes to avoid their outreached arms and saddened faces,
All those misguided eyes and their blistered tears, to this I stopped and turned,
Who was I, which deserved all this pity served?
