The little man is on the street and sitting in his chair
He sits there every Saturday, enduring hostile stares
A rug is wrapped around his knees to protect him from the cold
Begging pennies for the children, the disabled and the old.

He was given a gold medal for being a marvellous gent
But he doesn’t know what the cash pays for and how the cash is spent.
Despite the big certificate for all the effort made
One good look at the balance sheet might make his smile fade

Charity begins, of course, with coins thrown in a tin.
The volunteers, the public face, are just to take you in.
Covering scandal and corruption and a sort of legal theft;
Expenses paid out everywhere, till there’s very little left.

So shake hard on that charity tin and collect more for the needy.
Don’t mention the deception, because then it seems so seedy.
Then before the poor get their share, just buy a company car   
And then, maybe, a designer suit and a large house with a bar.

When networking and pressing  flesh, one must look at one’s best
Meeting rich and wealthy people as the voice of the oppressed.
A respectable front just covers up the evil rot inside;
It’s a sop to people’s conscience and there’s such a lot to hide

This is Charity, you see, and they can never get enough,
An excuse for all ‘professionals’ to get their noses in the trough.
They can pass the buck with the worst of them, sod responsibility!
Life’s a ball, they’ve got a job, as a leech on society.