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The Tramp

A poem about an [ex] Ipswich tramp… he’s dead now.

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The Tramp

Bow tie, trilby hat, rain mac,
New-fangled radio plugged in ear.
Sane man’s data he lacks,
Thus he chats, and chats, to you who regard him queer.

Burbles to the town the DJ’s news –
A funfair attraction for all the family to see.
Yet who throws him silver to grant him his booze,
Or 50p for a hot cup of tea?

Perches the concrete on the town hall steps,
Arm-in-arm with a scar-tattooed freak.
And the drunken birds sing wartime, drink meths.
But when it rains, and when it pours, are sparrows; weak.
Every week.

Comments:

1 hcf(: | on 10 January 2009

this is really gooooood! smile i like this line, ‘Arm-in-arm with a scar-tattooed freak’

2 MICHAEL MAITLAND | on 10 April 2009

cheers for the comment, love your writing- could be cool to do some kind of collaberation- your writing has alot of interesting imagery and could be cool to draw.

3 Howard | on 14 April 2009

I’d be honoured mate. I’ll be adding some more writing soon so whatever takes your fancy… It would be good if we could have a page/section on the website to host these collaborations on. And the best ones we can publish in the mag.

4 Abram | on 21 June 2009

I like

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