Even the poor have poor

Being poor comes in many shapes
you balance life lived on tightropes

old decaying grandeur but fresh eggs,
and wild hunts for moorland rabbits with
open fields for play and magic twigs

swopped for slipper baths and piss
yet on the streets the east and more
calls with exotic faces that others hiss

until the compact luxuries of prefab
squeeze us in the bargains of a life
until to breathe you escape by minicab

when does a house become a home
how long the streets did I roam.