The weary-long day has dimmed its light,
The birds flap wings in their return flight,
The crescent moon sneaks and springs in sight,
The poor boy has nowhere to spend the night.

He finds a place by the busy street,
Where the Lords pass by with a scornful greet.
He clings to his coat to find some heat;
He has his fate and a long night to beat.

The shivering cold is showing its might,
Having no mercy at the boy’s plight.
No one is there to help this mite,
All oblivious in their urban blight.

But somewhere down in his heart,
He is merrier than the wealthy dirt.
Under the open sky his agonies depart;
With and innocent smile his dreams start.