UNDERNEATH THE ARCHES
THE WIND BLOWS HARD AND COLD,
LITTER PILES UP ALL AROUND
NEW UPON THE OLD.
HIDDEN IN A CORNER
THE OLD MAN HUDDLES DOWN,
COVERED UP WITH BOXES
HE FINDS ABOUT THE TOWN.
THE MORNING PAPERS KEEP HIM WARM
TUCKED BELOW HIS THINGS,
THE EVENING PAPER LINES HIS SHOES
HIS TROUSERS TIED WITH STRINGS.
EACH DAY PASSES INTO WEEKS
YEARS KEEP PASSING BY,
TIME IT HAS NO MEANING NOW
HE’S WAITING JUST TO DIE.
WHAT A SAD AND LONELY END
FOR SUCH A LONG LIVED LIFE,
TO END UP LIVING ON THE STREETS
NO CHILDREN AND NO WIFE.
AND PEOPLE PASS HIM EVERY DAY
NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE,
A GLANCE IS ALL THEY GIVE HIM
THEY LEAVE HIM LYING THERE.
UNDERNEATH THE ARCHES
A STORY NOW IS TOLD,
OF LITTER THAT IS PILED ON TOP
A BODY STILL AND COLD.