Beggars Poem by Marcel Aouizerate

Four years hence in what, can you tell by the structure, the meaning and the depth, is none too intense a regimen, did I start to dream in broken english. One night that I was idling past a beggar, standing startlingly close to the door, and holding a sign 'will work for food', I found myself pondering what, if anything would come close to this misery, for people of my age and condition. The answer was plain as I stuck a tired dollar bill in his extended palm, simple as the picture of myself, clad in a pinstriped suit, holding a sign on which was written bold 'will work for fools'.