The Little Tramp
With a weary, saddened smile and a twinkle in the eye, all dressed inside a tattered
ill-fitting worldly suit,
Crumpled baggy trousers hanging loosely, draped down on his worn out boots, his toes
are peeping through,
He walks just like a penguin, while he twirls his thinning cane around in dextrous
artistic circles, but never striking out,
A bowler hat sit's cocked upon his head, his moustache moves with a nervous twitch
as though he's on the run,
No words upon his lips for his life is only silent, seeing only black and white, his window
the golden screen,
He always finds the bully, the biggest and the bad, but the little tramp is full of goodness,
and wins by using intellect and a sense of doing right,
The road a place he calls his home, never staying, always moving on, tomorrow's just
the same old day,
And as he passes through our lives, he leaves us feeling better, we've laughed and cried,
and realised that some lives are not much better.
Copyright © Stephen Blencowe | Year Posted 2013
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