Life as a poor man

Dear readers,

Tried a lot to fix the starting four lines of this poem but all in vain. Wrote this poem on 6th November 2011 and finally had to publish it without altering the first few lines. If someone can write those line better do help me then. :)

With regards
Bhatt Aaqib.

I was born in a room; was it a room or some shed?
I grew up in the same; my bowl was made of mud.
That food made me weak; it made me one of a stud.
Studs face the rain which brings in the flood
Either work for the master or get killed by a slayer
Of an old frail man, my looks had a glare
The old man in me, used to walk with a swagger
The strut wasn’t showy but to strike chief for labor
Work and get food or survive through the prayer
We don’t breed the waif even if there’s mayhem
This has been the slogan of the rich men from ages
Forlorn men of past doesn’t even fill the history pages
The world ain’t my own and my life has been forfeited
For that crime of mine, which I haven’t perpetrated.