I wrote my Victorian Pauper poem when I was 15 years old, which is why it rhymes. Rhyming poetry was very popular when I was growing up – not so much today.
A Victorian Pauper
He searches the dustbags and rattles the bins.
Not even the peasants will let him in.
His clothes are all tatty and torn by rats,
And he lives the life of an alley cat.
His hair is matted and riddled with fleas,
And his legs are bent crooked – a common disease.
He likes to stay hidden and well left alone,
As his father will beat him when he comes home.
His mother will nag him and send him to bed.
No food is he given. No water. No bread.
And when he falls asleep to stop his screams,
His nightmares slowly turn to dreams.
Copyright S.K. Holder
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