TORN VEST, BAD NAME AND LIGHT POCKETS.

In tattered vest the urchin came
Whose feet and body smelt the same;
I couldn't let him near my dog
Nor let his fouled legs near my rug.
This lad appeared day after day,
But each time I sent him away.
He became a well-to-do man;
I desired him from whom I ran.

She grew amongst some cold and vile -
I saw her as filth all that while;
My clear deeds told her all my heart
And were each time a poisoned dart.
Her parents drank and fought, I knew;
And her brothers used hard drugs too.
She won some maths competition;
I was ashamed for each action.

Single, a mother worked for me
Who dressed my bed and made my tea;
I treated her like a paid slave
And she trembled, her job to save.
If wealth or grace graces her tent
I would crave a past better spent.
Should one be good for likes of these?
Is fear that for which wrongs should cease?