I see the hobo man
He walks the street
Fleet of foot, face of soot
He uses paper for his sheet
The hobo man lives alone
We fear his strange ways
Days go by, he flees on the fly
The hobo man does not need our praise
I do not envy the hobo man
His life is hard and low
Blow is his fuel, the people are cruel
The street is his bed, the stone is his pillow
I wish you luck, hobo man
And enough dough for a new frying pan













Comments
An excellent poem about a lost subject.
--
-J
Read and comment. Growth as a writer can only occur with criticism, so read and comment on my work.
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