Dave

By the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, he sees the poor, cross Catherine Street, in their eyes need, linen washed clean, the soul of lost hordes, some hold a weed, they laugh as they walk, who needs a divvy, when food is cheap, the beggar's party, all of them taught, you need no inquiry, when the truth is caught, then buried, and each part of thought, has been curried, to a perfect nought, that’s to identify, between now and what's sought, the moon and the sea ?