Every year on October 5th,

A man comes around that’s not a myth.

He carries a suitcase in his hand,

Full of anchient minerals softer than sand.

These minerals can heal any man or beast,

For a perfect life this is the yeast.

As he enters our town on that fateful day,

He says anyone can be perfected with a slight pay.

My little leg has been broken since,

But my family only owns 5 pence.

I beg to the man to give me some minerals,

But he says my poverty is criminal.

As he leaves something enters my heart,

Something I should have realized from the start.

Someone with power like the man,

Should lend a hand to those who need it and not just the rich who merely want it.

I don't normally do poems, but I tried.

I hope the message got across.