That convict boy playing truant
With his fellow ragpickers
Day in and day out
The harvesting season of buffer
Has gone..Gone his bread and butter
Barefeet as he walks
Across the aisle of thorny bushes
Later at those anonymous paths
To cook food and wash dishes
Weekends he polishes the pride
Of nobles branded shoes
Sunday is quite busy
To sell newspapers at streets
And each night with a wide grin
And some books and a few cash
Departs he to the house
In one of the poorest slums
Which people assume a 'dumpyard'
He isn't a beggar..
He really isn't..