Saturday, 22 October 2011


They sit on park benches;

Their minds are a maze,

Of remembered occasions

And better off days.

Their home is a bag

Which lays at their feet,

Their only sustenance

Is gleaned from the street.

Relying on refuse bins

Or gracious handouts,

The dregs of society,

Vagrants, tramps, layabouts?

They solicit from need

Rather than greed,

For the price of a cup

Of steaming hot tea.

And as you reach in your pocket,

They’ll smile with content.

You walk away happy,

Your money well spent.

Will our streets ever be

Free from the sight,

Of warn out citizens

Who tour in the night?

They know every inch

Of their chosen locale,

Be it the park of Saint James

Or even The Mall.

They walk without reason,

Their lives have no rhyme.

The dregs of society

Are societies crime.

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