Blessed Are The Poor

'These plantain fruits hundred I'm offering to the Lord. Take this bunch in a basket And handover to the priest.' Thus spoke a fruit merchant To his humble servant, Who took it on his head And to the temple went ahead. He felt hungry on his way. 'What if I carry ninety? Who's going to count And check this account? ' So he thought and ate Ten from the basket And handed the rest To the temple priest. When the priest thanked The boss then heard What actually was handed And to the Lord offered. For each fruit, a thrash one, The servant received ten And with his bleeding skin Told 'I'll never do it again.' The boss dreamt that night And saw a pathetic sight Of the Lord's painful plight With ten wounds, left and right. 'I ate ten fruits only, Where're the other ninety? ' Asked him the Almighty Showing him no pity.