A man in a top hat strides down a street,
His cane rests gently in the crook of his arm.
Itâs not everyday a man has working feet,
More like a gun to only disarm.
The weather is pure, slight cloud at the bay,
But one could not ruin his perfect week.
He saw young children wanting to play,
Knowing their future was nothing but bleak.
But as he walked, hands were held out,
A stream of dirty faces be...
