The Vagrant

There’s a man who sleeps in the cold at night
on the bench down by the lake in the park.
His pillow, a bag he carries, of the bits he owns
just his jacket, to keep him warm in the dark.

Who was he, before he fell into this way of life
and is there someone who loved him and more.
Did he have a car, a house, a job of importance
was his life something special and happy before.

I just can’t see how he can be happy
the life he lives is a lonely place it seems
With no one to talk to, no one at all
no hope, no phone, no home, no dreams.

I wonder if he left children, without a father
is he running away from something really bad.
Or maybe this is how he wants his life to be
but then why does he always seem to look so sad.

His face is dirty, like the jacket he wears
and his clothes, well they are just the same.
He speaks to no one if they try to offer help
a homeless wanderer, a stranger with no name.

I just can’t see how he can be happy
the life he lives is a lonely place it seems
With no one to talk to, no one at all
no hope, no phone, no home, no dreams.