Tramp

He moves along the village street,
A shapeless shuffling pile of rags;
His head hangs low upon his chest,
One foot behind the other drags.

He comes from nowhere; nowhere goes,
But always, always on the move
Along the village streets and lanes,
As if a needle in a groove.

His house is a hole in a hawthorn hedge,
With an old tarpaulin overhead;
His pots and pans are old tin cans,
A pile of rags his only bed.

His is an only, lonely life,
A life completely bare of friends.
He travels through his world alone
And death is where his journey ends.