I wore this blue shirt the last time I saw my friends
And maybe the time before that
And possibly the time before that
I have three comfy shirts
They are appreciated and well loved
More than a whole closet of clothes that never leave their hangers
I like comfort, cozy fuzzy, warm.
Did I say comfort? Comfort? COMFORT.
My favorite pair of pajamas has been around for thirteen years.
The front zipper from neck to crotch is broken.
I do not care; tend to wear a nightie under it.
I could easily become a street person if I could keep my dogs.
She is pitiful, and I am a soft touch
Not exactly running toward her but it is snowing
And my mother taught us to be charitable
She is delighted to be invited
The rest of the camp has to be convinced
Luckily they trust me, their street person leader
Betrayed, I flee with Jack, my friend
We train and train, hoping to get back at her
Because she has left the others dead around the fire
The unassuming old lady is a demon of some type
We return, Jack and I, and fight for their honor.
We cannot bring them back, but we can execute revenge.
I die jumping into her claws, but take her out too
Doomed to walk the earth and never be heaven bound
At least, I am able to warn others about unassuming old ladies.
Webster's defines “bum” as a lazy street person
Aside from the lazy aspect, I have a different version
Female bums are why men exist
Ogling their assets so hard to resist
Ignoring them is difficult, but it's a delightful diversion
I was speeding down the e-way in my Chevy pick-up truck,
When I spied a person laying there and I feared that she’d been struck.
Her body was splayed spread eagle out in the middle of the road,
And people blared their horns at her as traffic around her flowed.
I pulled onto the shoulder then sprinted to lend her aid,
I scooped her up in my arms and we together prayed.
Her clothes were old and greasy and her hands were stained with dirt,
I told her I’d get her to the hospital and asked her where it hurt?
But with her fist she struck me in the face like we were in a fight,
Then she jumped over the retaining fence and disappeared into the night.
Now I ask myself a question that is always nagging me,
Did I save a life that night or just prolong her agony?
The morning sun,
a warm and welcome sight.
For I've longed for day
and place of warmth,
after another sub zero night.
Scarce comfort
was by me found.
In one old cardboard box,
atop a grate,
on frigid ground.
To passer's by
I'm oft viewed with disgust.
With body unkept, and stench of wine,
so unlike them,
giving off their air of trust.
But who can know but God,
of daily hardship's I endure?
Who will speak to me of eternal salvation
and if within my life,
It's secure?
Were man truly concerned
about my soul and being,
could he not walk with me one mile,
without judging,
instead of from me fleeing?
You whisper to another,
then, foregoing eye contact, you stare.
Not recalling another's words
"Ye did it unto me"
For Jesus, do you care?
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