He rummages in bins and sleeps in a doorway

And he eats of the scraps as he hears the dogs bay.

He walks in his days in an alcoholic maze

As he fights in his sleep when his mind tries to keep

A piece of this man who has tried all he can.

But to no avail.

He has given up the ghost to be host to his dreams

Lifes coffees and creams .

Left behind in the fast dimming lights of what could have been mights.

Now he dresses in rags carries his home in two bags

Which are tied with black rope,

He curses his God the church and the pope.

He walks on his own cursing alone.

Bemoans at his fate as passes the Tate

And thinks this of art, it  Isn’t worth a part

Of the price that’s been paid.

He goes on a raid to another trash can and meets up with a man

Who gives him some time and some moments of peace

From the mad dogs that bay and the church and the police.

He promises to change he gives this man his oath

Promises both to be broken by dusk.

As in another drunken maze he sits down to busk.

His voice is now gruff out of tune and quite soon

The coppers arrive they seem to despise.

This man down on his luck

They think that this man aint worth a feck.

What do you think?


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