Mr Smith is eighty-four,
his ragged, tatty trousers lay near the door.
He's got two pairs - they're pretty old,
with faggy smells and dirty mould.
He sits there all day with a bottle of booze,
just glugging it down, like he's looking for clues!
His wife died you know, about a year ago,
he's lost without her but who wants to know?
A damp cardboard box is what he calls "home", although he doesn't talk he sings peacefully alone.
The dull alleys he roams all day,
looking for warm shelter,
filling food, and pay.
Money he wants, money he needs, money will bring everything to please.
The cold winter nights bring shiver and pain
to his mind and body which are frozen again.
He's been here a year now since 1986,
he's given up hope and thinks it's a fix!
Goodbye cruel world, I'm off to see God,
he bows his head turning into a nod.
He's fallen asleep and is lying down
and he won't wake up until the clock is wound!