A Poet's End Poem by john coldwell

Old Ortlepp is dead, by the way.
The way from Pforta to Almrich.
They buried him under dusky rain,
When they found him in a ditch.

Sometimes I wish I were a tramp.
Worn boots along the road.
Taking in the hedgerow smells,
That plants themselves have sowed.

Sometimes I wish I were a tramp.
A walking down a lane.
And when the daylight turns to dusk,
I'll sleep in a farmyard wain.

Sometimes I wish I were a tramp.
Better poor than rich.
Don't look for me when I am old,
I'm with Ortlepp, in a ditch.