Old Haggard

Old Haggard is without a home,
He roams the streets with nowhere to go,
And, in some quiet park, in London,
A bench, where he lays his weary dome,
Old Haggard wakes in the early morn,
Then sifts through dustbins, to eat
An old crust, will do him, till the night
His curse is, he should never have been born.
Old Haggard, quells his thirst, with soup,
Received from the wagons, nightly round,
Then cardboard boxes he will prepare,
With others, to sleep, within a group.
Old Haggard is there no matter what the day,
Never moving any further, than Westminister.
He will ask for money, for a cup of tea,
Thank you, then discreetly walk away.
Old Haggard, has to live a hard grind,
Though, he would never change it.
He blames society for all of his plight.
And would be happier, if he wasn't blind.

by Thomas Bicknell

Other poems of THOMAS BICKNELL (1)

Comments (1)

blame others first and lament existence...well, at least it rhymes.