The Tramp

Bow tie, trilby hat, rain mac,
New-fangled radio plugged in ear.
Sane man’s data he lacks,
Thus he chats, and chats, to you who regard him queer.

Burbles to the town the DJ’s news –
A funfair attraction for all the family to see.
Yet who throws him silver to grant him his booze,
Or 50p for a hot cup of tea?

Perches the concrete on the town hall steps,
Arm-in-arm with a scar-tattooed freak.
And the drunken birds sing wartime, drink meths.
But when it rains, and when it pours, are sparrows; weak.
Every week.