He saw the bag lying there.
And none seemed to care,
As up he picked it
For that extra bit,
To hawk for an earning fair.
As he opened the bag,
He felt his spirits sag.
For in there was a baby
Packed in a cloth shabby
Alive? Yes, no, maybe...
For this poor hawker,
It was a real shocker,
To find a baby in the bag,
Wrapped in a piece of rag
He felt, he’d go off his rocker...
He left the bag and started running,
And saw some cops for him gunning.
He couldn’t with police race,
And soon gave up the chase,
And told them of his find stunning.
Finding no charges on him to nail,
The police chose to believe his tale.
They set the poor hawker free;
To sell his wares under a tree.
And soon, the baby began to wail...
Out the “abandoned” baby was sent.
Sure enough to an orphanage it went.
Let us wish this baby a good life
With good health and no strife,
And surely education to some extent.
Was the hawker’s a Hand of God?
Should we the police applaud?
That this baby in a bag survived?
Because in time, it was revived?
Or is this justice quite flawed?
(I have employed some creative licence in this poem)
