Beggar on the street

Dear Sir,
Words run off my well oiled back,
But stares are worse than knives,
Sarcastically slicing,
Leaving me vulnerable,
To the smallest of pricks.

Dear Sir,
Winds whip through my worn coat,
But chills are nothing,
Merely an empty tissue-box,
or a pair of odd socks,
To razorblades through my mind.

Dear Sir,
I've done nothing to offend you,
Yet you seem to think I'm dirt,
Akin to chewing gum on a footpath,
Picked up and spat-out
Through no fault of my own.

Dear Sir
I am only one of many sir,
Of whom you seem to hate,
A punch-bag for your mood-swings,
A target for contemptuous looks,
A victim who won't fight back?

But Sir you are forgetting
One thing about yourself
It could be you tomorrow
Left sitting on a shelf