'Rag and Bone'
Did you ever hear about the man,
who got caught up in the blast and the ban?
He was poor,
poor as I’ve seen,
shaking and shaking like I’ve never been.
The crazies would turn their noses upwards,
and call him the ‘fool’.
No you’re right it wasn’t cool,
I struggled to find the words,
but they came to me in a dream,
swirling round in an academic stream.
The man,
they said he sold rag
and bone,
but his voice was lost in Rome,
where his friends were blown up.
Eyes wild like a desperate beast,
his stomach cried out for some food,
a feast.
A few coppers in an old coffee cup,
he sank into a bag and slept,
away from prying eyes he wept.
Caught up in hard winter nights,
ears boxed in during drunken fights.
Ignored by the general populous
some women as fat as a hippopotamus,
and he starved.
Forgotten by everyone except himself,
grey hairs in a beard of black.
as he wrote on a wall,
‘If I could I would attack!’
But his bones were weary,
under a slate sky it looked dreary.
And he was going to die.
He never quite made it home,
but got further than friends in a far-off Rome.
Never destined to be king,
only ruler of a ghostly parking lot,
never any gold in a beggars pot.
Eyes glazed over like I don’t know,
a stray dog in a stray place,
if only he could find life.
They never liked what he said,
from society they did ban,
this humble soul,
this rag and bone man.