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Old Bum


Clive Michie

Old man
Cold and hungry
Grasping warm coffee
Scowling at passers by

His face is made of leather
His fingers stiff and twisted
His clothes are filthy rags
His age no one can tell

He guards his bags of bottles
He guards his cardboard box
He lost his medication
He canít afford the pills 

He staggers to the liquor store
And buys up what he can
This will keep him going
Puts all the past behind 

How did he get here?
How will he escape?
What caused this in his life?
What really makes him tick?

A passer by takes notice
He perks his ears to hear
The old bum looks to the sky
Then bows his head to say

Merry Christmas baby Jesus

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