The Tramp

Gnarled, rugged, worn out hands,
Stretching, searching, sorting his treasure.
What gems will his hands discover
As he roots through trash left by another.

Will he find a crust of stale bread
Or perhaps a bottle with a tiny dreg.
If luck is in he'll find a bun,
No-one can call this life fun.

His grimmy hands retrieve a prize,
And he stuffs it deep down with pride.
At least tonight as he lays his head,
He can thank God for daily bread.

As the wind whistles high,
And the trees do sway,
He rests his bones,
By the park archway.

No pillow or blanket for him tonight
For they were given to a small young mite.
So he pulls his coat tight round about,
And prays to God to release him now.

For what is his purpose here on earth
When no-one else seems to care.
To his relief as night meets dawn,
His final breath is slowly drawn.