The Tramp
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Through wetness and coldness the ill-shod man trudged,
He shouted and swore at the court and the judge.
They locked him away for a year and a day,
And there he did slumber 'till the 15th of May.

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They released him on Monday and fast he did sink,
By Saturday morning he'd arrived at the brink.
His spirit was broken his money was gone,
And he lived in a world where the sun never shone.

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He walked and he walked from each town in its turn,
And they all moved him on with no money to earn.
He found his vocation in clearing the streets,
Of the litter from children created by sweets.

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The year it moved on and the temperature fell,
And not one hot drink did our friend ever smell.
His health took a dive and it began to look bad,
When his cough got the worst  that he'd ever had.

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He swore at the vicar, the police and the clerk,
The mums at the gate and the kids in the park.
They all turned their heads and silently said,
‘He's only  a Tramp, he's better off dead.’

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They all had their wish on the next Friday night,
He found his Creator in a back alley fight.
It didn't last long with a quick fisted brut,
Who mugged him and slugged him still dressed in his suit.

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The next morning it snowed and there he did lay,
And a number of residents were heard to say,
‘That trash by the dustbins looks awfully bad,
If the Council don't move it, I'll have to get mad.’
Keith Murphy©