You can be destitute, dressed in rags
But you're a tycoon with pencil and pad
Your office a park bench under the sun
Your income the poem or song yet unsung
Your boardroom the corner of some shopping mall
Where multitudes gather
When you, the writer calls
No microphones needed
Nor fancy backdrops
The words of poetry ring forth
Crowds now do stop
Amazed that a man
Unkempt, dressed in rags
Can bring peace to the masses
And new heart to the sad
All this with no money, just pencil and pad
This poetic  tycoon
Shone in a world so sombre and sad