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Mr. Joe

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Mr. Joe

Mr. Joe is always awake.
He quietly ponders on the evening’s take.
He sees your addiction
The afternoon wait
For the same plastic bag
That he knows is a fake.
But what he sees and what he tells
A poor man would never sell.
For Mr. Joe is neither here nor there. He is but simply a living spare.
He doesn’t let grace or manners go to waste
He knows sincerity ends up on his cardboard plate
But sometimes he is curious to know
Why some of you put on a helping show
For all the money within the world
Would be but a tainted pearl
Or a crown of dust and sand upon his head
For all he longs for is he own soft bed.

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