Paul F. McCann

THE VAGABOND

At the end of the day in a city doorway
from the shadows of the sidewalk he’ll crawl.
Is he sane, is he mad, is he somebody’s Dad,
what’s his name, well he just can’t recall.

He’s far out and beyond; he’s been too long gone.
He’s better off just being the Vagabond.

Well all of his dreams have been stitched up at the seams
and left hanging up to dry in the rain.
If you should pass him by take a look into his eye
for he hides behind a smile in his pain.

He’s far out and beyond; he’s been too long gone.
He’s better off just being the Vagabond.

He’s always on his ownand he doesn’t have a home
no one ever seems to care much anymore.
They call him a bum and he pretends he’s dumb
for he knows that it’s them who are sick and sore.

He’s far out and beyond; he’s been too long gone.
He’s better off just being the Vagabond.

It’s hard times indeed when you can’t get a feed
and greedy eyes never see the plight,
of all the hungry bunch down at the penny lunch
on the corner of the dereliction site.

He’s far out and beyond; he’s been too long gone.
He’s better off just being the Vagabond.