Just the big empty hand of a would-be prophet
Lost in the vast void of his empty pocket
Filled with only fear and shame and blinding rage
His fist clenched inside that so empty cloth cage
Slated to live a life that no one sees fit

He has nothing left to hide from anyone
Living life lower than the protocol son
None think to pick the pocket of a pauper
Who would even find it to be improper
Why save a man who’s crushed by the weight of none