Happy Poem by Kevin East

'Happy' walked the streets in his dishevelled clothes
10p in his pocket and a stud in his nose
Armed only with songs and some simple prose.
Tube station serenader, odd change raider,
With a smile to thaw the hardest hearts
'One day, ' he says, 'I'll be in the charts.'
Happy's hands are rough, he worked and slaved enough
A builder in the city, but he never trades on pity,
Just him, his guitar and a ditty.
Blowing in the wind and rising with the sun
Happy has to chuckle at every tale he's spun
And at every bet he's won
Or all those that he's lost
He'd shake his head, not count the cost.
Happy said his beloved mother
Was of Spanish descent
His father and his brother were there
But eventually just went
And left her in the poor house
With all the savings spent.
Happy is a man of philosophy
He'd lecture to any dosser, free
How the world and its wife came to be
That nobody listened didn't douse his spark
He'd take his 'Big Issues' to the park
And stand there in the sun
Until the last horse race was run.