There's A Bench Down Our High Street Poem by Joe Hughes

There's a bench down our high street,
Where all the tramps sit.
You can tell it from a distance -
The ground's covered in spit!

There's a bench down our high street,
Where the boozers all gather.
You can smell it from a distance -
It reeks of cider, strong lager!

There's a bench down our high street,
Where the smokers all puff.
There are those who sit with them
But they all seem quite rough!

There's a bench down our high street,
People give it a wide berth.
No! They wouldn't sit there -
For they know it's reserved!