Hypocrisy of The Ironic Type

Rampant humidity races down spines,
The world is cooking, doused in sweat wine.
Life on the street ignores the life-giver, the life-taker,
an irritation like the lingering words of their maker.

Cars barrel through streets helter-skelter,
People thrum on roadsides seeking sole shelter.
Pushing carts, hawking ware, needs must be met,
In this democratic utopia with no place for the inept.

The good people of society move on with their lives,
Tax-paying beings wallowing in their important lies.
Not terrorists, not rapists, nor hippies still,
Hurting nobody they expect to pay heaven's bill.

Naturally, adhering to the statutes of society,
The best of humanity understands propriety.
And sitting on the corner, used to carrying weight,
Our fit law men police the rules of the state.

But standing forgotten by state and people,
A beggar cries hoarsely under a church steeple.
Calling across lanes of whizzing death, his shaking hand
Cups two rupees, for a samosa garnished with grit and sand.

By him, salary men on bikes laugh and joke,
Ignoring the beggar man as he croaks and chokes.
Loving parents indulge daughters' whims for new dolls,
But still none care to heed the poor old man's calls.

Untill one man, casually clad, stud in one ear,
Crosses the road for him with genuine cheer.
He buys eight and gives the lot, with change,
To a tearful old man, who is misery's sage.

The man blushes with the elder's benediction,
And ponders over the vaunted social condition.
How is it that the good people didn't care to see,
Ignoring the old man in favour of puffs and tea?

When it took a man on the fringes of law,
Possessing illegal green leaves, he still saw
Past the shaking hands, the old man's temerity,
Walking away thinking of man's hypocrisy.

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