The Bum

Look, the poor man as he begs;
people walk by, not a tear shall they shed.
He has made his life as it is,
they don't care, if the gutter is his bed.
He is a sorrowful sight,
with filthy rags and dirty feet.
He has a cup in his hand;
the world he will meet.
His grim dark face,
where the wrinkles are deep and long.
They show his many trials;
the poor man's sad song.
Is he a drunkard or a bum?
Does he have a family or is he alone?
No trace of his past,
in his eyes, will be shown.
He is one of the many lost souls,
as his frail body shakes.
The icy November day,
a slow, crippled way he make.
One day he will die;
not a soul will really mourn.
His death; one in a thousand,
poor he died, no one cared how he was born.