Tramp

The sun was low, and the shadow was cold

On the pale drawn face, that was wrinkled and old

A newspaper coat, hanging loose 'round his throat

And the shoes on his feet, strips of leather tied up with rope

His uncombed hair, and eyes that would stare

At the people passing by, who didn't know or didn't care

This poor old man he's all alone

He's got no money or no home of his own

The back street's his kitchen

The footpath's his hall

And the chalk on the brick work

Are the pictures on his wall

He lays down his head

On the pavement that's his bed

And when he sleeps, his dreams fade away

He walks down the street, with his hands in his coat

Looking down at his feet, for a dog-end he could smoke

He thinks about food, good drinking and good fun

As he searches through the dustbins, his life almost done