An old man, at the corner of the street,
Gently, he grabbed a violin, then a seat.
He was so violent and missed the beat.

An old man had it wrong, all the notes,
Covered in old ***** rags, stinky clothes,
Beneath his worn pants, appeared bare toes.

An old man played voilin, amidst the sleet,
Of an excessive bold fraction came a heat,
Of a strong volition to make sense of a beat.

A broken man at the corner of the street,
Without any glance by anyone, or a greet,
lonesome loner life, filled of silent weep.

An old man amidst the crowd and sleet,
With a dreadful face and a noisious glee,
Which echoes in an empty cup for coins.

An old dreaded man with a dreaded seat,
Waiting for a handful, to a mouthful meal,
To survive another day, but never to heal.

A deaf man at the same corner for years,
Playing violin, on a cold dreaded seat,
A man with empty eyes and deaf, ears.

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