The wide eyed dog at the end of the table
The hand in the fingerless glove on the side of the road
The glass eyes of a caring heart
Can’t complain when all you’ve got is scraps
The shame of the pariah, the taste of guilt
Stones cast into the sky as I remain still
The hand grips the pickaxe and swings once more at the ground
There’s almost no reward for what I do but that doesn’t stop me
So don’t short change me for what you don’t see
The ghost of persecution haunts us all
And I am somebody, worth my weight in gold
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