Mother! "Why do other's speak of the unfortunate man?"

Is it his shoes don't match

His clothes are tattered and torn

He does not have a job

"Why must he walk the street's with a basket?"

Collecting his can's

Other's utter "where must he sleep"

I never see him panhandling

Nor, do I see him beg

Friend's tell me he lives in a cardboard box

Many call him weird

My Son, "we must not judge"

For he is just a man

His clothes are clean

Though a little tattered and torn

As for his basket

It may be filled with his many treasure's

He earns his keep collecting his can's

That is his job!

And his cardboard box is his home and castle

Copyright 2004