Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

Trash cans set out for supper,
Cooks hide behind the shutter
Ashamed to watch the feast
Of meat bone lightly greased;
Stale bread with melted butter,
And Fag butts from the gutter;
A slug of metho to wash it down,
Or a swig of musket brown.
And the seagulls wear a frown,
Afraid to fly on down,
Lest the vagabonds do sing
As they pluck the feathered wing
In lane ways where the shade
Was, for them, aptly made.

~ 2 ~

Some sold their uniforms and pride,
Some think they are those who died,
Some were born to be just bums,
Some won’t be when summer comes.
Others still hear the guns
From which their sanity runs
To mingle with the ghosts
Guarding the crimson moats
That surround the isle of shame
Where the mad, the sad, and lame
Share their hidden pain
With the cold night air again.
And who really gives a damn?
Not them; not that dead man!