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Old Haggard

Old Haggard is without a home,
He roams the streets with nowhere to go,
And, in some quiet park, in London,
A bench, where he lays his weary dome,
Old Haggard wakes in the early morn,
Then sifts through dustbins, to eat
An old crust, will do him, till the night
His curse is, he should never have been born.
Old Haggard, quells his thirst, with soup,
Received from the wagons, nightly round,
Then cardboard boxes he will prepare,
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COMMENTS
Wm Bickster 31 March 2010
blame others first and lament existence...well, at least it rhymes.
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