Mendigo hobo the street curb's your pillow
No walls or windows, exhaust fume wind blows
Under the bridge where everybody talks but noone knows
Daylight glare open nighttime gates closed.
Queensize bed all marked with carbon
stained with body fluids a smell that befuddles
Quirky hangovered hobos share their last drops
Slap happy till the buzz stops
Dazed eyes monitor the streeet vendors passing by
Hobos wobble and lean as they follow junkyard style
The local mob disperse as spiritual crocadiles
At the centre of despair the helpless sleep in bile.
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