The Tramp

No home or friendly hand held out in welcome,
No cheery glow of fire, no warmth of food,
there is none,
No shelter when the cold wind blows,
No refuge from the sleet and snow;
In a harsh uncaring world he knows
He has neither friend or foe.

A hard park bench on which to lie,
Where endless throngs of people pass him by.
His sole possessions in a ruck sack;
"Better you than me, I'm alright Jack!"

Secure in your comfort, oblivious of his plight,
It doesn't really matter who is wrong or right,
Turn not your back, but heed his silent cries;
It could be you not him, that the world despise.
Contemplate, the difference found.
If fate had someone smiled, instead of frowned.

by Hazel June Hooper

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