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Poem
Excuse my rambling on so, 
                        but my style ought to be
                     consonant with the theme of these lines
                         a tramp called rambling Fred.
                     Knowing where all roads lead eventually, 
                             takes time to enjoy the slendour
                 more than Solomon's in field and hedge-row.
                  Sleeping in ditches, he can claim the best
             of precedents, but what does he do for sex?
                  Every choice involves some sacrifice, 
                 that every high-powered executive
              doth know, but perhaps he's some kind of priest
      or friar belonging to the Grand Order of
            Human Kind. To him, whether he says so or no, 
       nature is a temple with trunks for pillars.
         Does that make him a symbolist like Baudelaire?
             Do you think he's heard of Ariosto?
                   "'Arry 'oo? No use asking me, mate.
                     Never 'ad an eddy-cation! Spare 50P?"
                   Yet, despite it all, he's rich
    on survival and a cuppa char.
                                
              For social security purposes
                 he's got an address in Hitchen, 
                     but still prefers to do odd jobs
         or cadge off friends in St. Albans.

       Then hasn't he 'dropped (or 'opted') out'?
        True, his productivity is low, but
         economists take note - he is a pioneer
            in low consumption. His example may thus
                help us overcome the world energy crisis.

             What does he do when caught in a storm?
        Though fast cars splash dirty water
     in his face, something a churchman
    might call grace, sustains him.
   Swish-! That was
   The Lordship's Rolls.
  Thoughts of revenge?
         No, they are far behind, 
     for if you really believe 
    wisdom can stand
  on its own seven feet
  there's little inclination left
 to expend your energies on anything less
 than the quest for life's true meaning.
                                                               
 Time is a butler                                                    
  who never quite
 loses track of the household accounts.
Even lords and ladies                                                                  
must eventually                                               
  muck in with  the queen bee
      and worker ant.
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