TIM CANTOR

Aristocratic man, unfriendly in your hat

No gander, no smirk, no hint of any grin

Where is your cryptic soul? Who is the man within?

Let's see what molds the form of the shape you have been cast

Let's look at you some more

Let's see into your past

Beaten as a boy, left for dead at seven

No home, no food, one piece of bread was heaven

You slept your nights in dirt; filth bound in vicious grounds

To show a single tear would tempt the wolfish hounds

So you closed your feelings off, you hid your pain with care

No anguish, no sadness, no giving words to share

By ten you ceased to cry

By twelve you chose to die

With one last breath in you, fate came to you with help

A stranger saved your life, though poor he was himself

He gave you back some hope, and one more infant start

He changed your certain end, and gave you half a heart

You still grew up reserved, you still disguised your love

But there seems to be a glow within your warming blood

Your secret soul appears in your hatred for neglect

The truth has been revealed by those you now protect

The strays, the lost, the castaways like you

You're not the mean old man, that we all thought we knew

It may not show to us, but there's love within your call

That love is set aside 

For the weak and for the small

Aristocratic man

You're human after all