Under the greasy harmathan
I once saw a man
Standing by the gates of fleeting hope
With a voice that hung on a tiny rope
Of blistered fingers
And sweaty palms
Dancing in strums
That reeked of slums
A hat on the floor
Begged the swinging door
For food to eat
And ears for his beat
And when l stopped to lend my ear
The rhythm picked up gear
While the hat begged my hand
To touch its hand
Sincerely, thank you for reading.
You are the reason why we keep telling these stories. Our mission is to inform, educate, and inspire through objective storytelling and journalism. We are deeply grateful for your belief in our mission. To enhance your user experience, we've got off a lot of things such as obstructive ads. However, telling these stories and making these researches require funds.
If you enjoy our content and you want to see us continue, please kindly support us by donating here.
You can also send us an email firstname.lastname@example.org. Thank you for your continuous support.