THE BUSKER IS A BUDDHIST

There's a busker in the high street
He is this bloke I know,
I've heard that he's a Buddhist
But it doesn't really show.
He doesn't dress in saffron robes
(I'm told that's what they wear),
He doesn't sit cross-leggėd
Nor is his head shaved bare.
I'd even go as far to say
He looks like you or me,
You'd think there'd be some difference
Something plain to see.

There's a chap lives two doors down
I see him every day,
You wouldn't know from looking
But I've heard that he is gay.
He doesn't dress in pink and frills
(For that's their usual choice),
He doesn't walk with hand on hip
Or talk in a camp voice.
I'd even go as far to say
He looks like me or you,
You'd think there'd be some difference
A telltale sign or two.

There's a young girl in my office
By her work I'm most impressed,
I've heard she's got depression
You never would have guessed.
She doesn't dress all dowdy
(I'm told that's what they do),
She's not forever crying
Or hiding in the loo.
I'd even go as far to say
She looks like you or I,
You'd think there'd be some difference
Some pointers to go by.

There's a flaw in those like me
We have such hackneyed views,
You might not know by looking
We walk in bigots' shoes.
Not all of us wear cardies
(I hear some say we do),
We don't all read the "Mail"
Or write to "Points of View".
I'd even go as far to say
We look much like the crowd,
You'll only see the difference
When we spout our views out loud.

There's a busker in the high street
He is this bloke I know,
I've heard that he's a Buddhist
But it doesn't really show.

DISCLAIMER: The narrator of this poem is purely fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely coincidental

copyright dm pamment 26th February 2010