The Balloon seller stands cold and frigid,
O' look how people are ideally rigid,
balloons are an old thing now , they say,
he wonders what now a days make children gay.

They simply pass,
O' how their empathy has dried,
alas , no one melts,
seeing those ugly welts.

He chants the merry chant,
but the children are scant,
they no longer are naive,
as the innocence was incapable to suffice.

He glances at the beggar 's,
his children so very tender,
unaware of the wicked devices,
as they live by the crevices.

Looking at them , he smiles,
And the number of happiness, he dials,
handing them one each,
off humanity , he wipes a little grease.

He recalls his task,
was to wear happiness' mask,
philanthropy could be seen,
even in an average being.

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