He can't walk, it's so hot, he's talking to himself
He collects bottles from the bin to make his living
Sits under the scroching sun waiting for one more hand to free so he can grab
His life would be the same everday
Under the heat of today
Hunger doesn't suffice so he digs in deeper
Where we all sit in the piano man with breeze and tropial ice tea
Rags on the body and a broken chappal
Patience in his heart
That's his power
Throat llies parched while crushing a hundred bottles under his feet
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