Incensed when they ignore him, he’s hurt when they implore him to leave them alone.
Can’t they see he wants to be free from being hungry in Hungary?
All the same, with self-reproachful shame, he pities the less enlightened.
Even those who curse at him, but far less than the ones he’s frightened.
Raising his palm, using all his charm he blesses them all: ‘Namasté.’
Then he winks at Yanks he thinks are cranks shouting, ‘Have a nice day.’
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