Tramp.

Slowly dying by the road side,
Another tramp that from the cold can't hide.
With shaggy hair and broken teeth,
Tattered clothes with lice beneath.
A bottle of sherry in his hand,
Dreaming of the days when life was grand.
But it's too late now as his legs go numb,
He's out of sherry, he's out of rum.

Whatever's happening in this world of ours?
When a man lives like this in his final hours.
Dying with no dignity,
I wouldn't like that to happen to you or me.

© Copyright ThePoet.co.uk 2004