Murky city, both sky and ground,
Smog that is so profound.
A land of cement and asphalt,
The earth underneath showing its faults.
A man, with dirty debilitated wear,
Lumbered out onto the street, going who knows where.
Having only one goal in mind,
Sat himself down on a street corner and began the grind.
Pulling a tin can out of his torn coat,
He also tweaked his guitar and played a note.
No vocals, his throat too dry,
A purely instrumental piece, one that will hopefully rectify.
Strumming the strings, he watched people walk by,
Few stopping to listen, most turned a blind eye.
He was losing hope, before someone sprinkled a few coins into the can,
He smiled; he may be able to enact his plan.
Hours passed, he had gained two bucks,
But he had not yet hit the crux.
Feeling tired, his playing grower slow,
He put down the instrument, rested and laid low.
He looked to the sky, the afternoon drawing to a close,
He picked up the tin can and jiggled it at anybody in sight, trying to get the most.
Nobody paid him any mind, and he looked down into the can, mostly air,
The money would buy him something, but not something that was fair.
Before the sun was replaced by the moon,
Before night replaced the afternoon,
He went to the nearest grocery store,
To get something to eat before receding to his hideaway to feast and to snore.
Edit: Feedback would be appreciated.
