Ode To A Tramp Poem by Nick Jordan.

Fortune one day may shine upon him
Or perhaps his luck's been and gone
Life hasn't always been this grim
As once, for him it shone.

Reduced to begging for food and drink
Ignored in large by society
Somewhat resembling the missing link
Consumed by his own sobriety

Vagabond, vagrant, peasant, Tramp
Call him what you will
Sleeping rough in the cold and the damp
Surviving the winter chill

Scavenger, scab or survivor
Call him what you will
His privilege and pride
Have all but died
There's little left to kill

Beyond all doubt his hope is done
His money spent on booze,
He stumbled at the starting gun
And now he's set to lose

Who can he blame
for his untimely demise?
That society cast to one side
We show little shame or any reprise
And little care for his pride

We jump to conclusion
He's a waster and spent
He's worthless in our eyes
He prays for something heaven sent
But no one hears his cries.

And then it's to late
He's all but broken
Motionlessly he lies
Never again to be woken
Peacefully he dies.