The Tramp Poem by simon bowles

The poor old man in tattered clothes
He walks the streets alone
No friends has he, no food has he
A doorway is his home

People stop and stare at him
But never do they speak
no luck has he no life has he
no shoes upon his feet

He watches people pass him by
A tear runs down his face
If only they would talk to him
Or offer him a place

At night beneath his blanket
in his prayers He'll say
please God let tomorrow be
much better than today


Although we are so lucky
With homes and food to eat
But If our luck should ever change
Our home could be the street...