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“Come now, my friend, let me help,”
Said the rich man with a camera in hand,
His voice smooth, his smile grand,
As he approached the man in the alley so damned.

“Tell me your story, we’ll capture it right,
For the world needs to see your plight.”
The poor man’s eyes, swollen and red,
Watched the rich man prepare his lens with dread.

“I’m here to give, to lift your strife,”
Said the rich man, adjusting the scene of life,
“Let’s show the world your pain and your need,
And they’ll follow, donate, and heed.”

The poor man’s voice trembled, deep and raw,
His life, his loss, his endless flaw,
“I’ve lost my arms to cancer’s snare,
And my legs are weak, I cannot bear.”

Tears streamed down, mingled with dust,
His cries for help, a poignant thrust,
A moment of anguish, a plea from the heart,
Captured in pixels, a dramatic art.

“Smile for the camera,” the rich man said,
As he adjusted the light, the lens, the spread,
“And later, you’ll see, your story will gain,
Followers and funds, to ease your pain.”

With a final click, the scene was done,
The rich man handed over a sum,
The poor man’s hands shook, tears fell free,
A brief respite from his agony.

“Stand up now, and get to work,”
The rich man said, beginning to shirk,
His role in this drama, now complete,
He turned away, leaving the man’s defeat.

The poor man, alone, in his suffering space,
Looked at the money, his tear-streaked face,
“I’m a cripple,” he cried, “with hands that are gone,
Why not leave us to die, why string us along?”

“If you can’t help, then just walk away,
Stop turning our misery into your play.”
His voice broke, echoing through the night,
A plea for dignity, a call for the right.

In the end, the cameras clicked away,
Leaving the poor man in disarray,
A heartbroken plea, a soul laid bare,
Lost in the echoes of an unjust care.
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