White beard and whiskered, etched by time,
old weathered street-wise face,
a bottle by his side,
the old tramp sits and sits
upon the well worn bench
in Euston Square;
Familiar sight as London races by,
amidst the last of summer's
already falling leaves
and cooler air.
The distant roar of angry trains
and frantic peeping taxis,
staring eyes, a multitude of tourists
straining to see
the greater sights of London town.
And still he sits,
astute, sagacious -
but wisdom spoiled by drink.
Diploma in Psychology, he said,
and Sociology too
but now...
the friend of pigeons
and
a strange brotherhood they find
these alcoholics of the lonely roads.
"Me in a house?" He laughed,
"A joke, I don't want to pay a bill."
With slurring, halting speech
he turns an appreciative word
"People give us homeless sandwiches
and cups of tea.
You've talked to me
and that's made all the difference."