The Tramp
 

Dressed up in his filthy rags,
He wheezes up the stairs.
He does not give a damn you see,
For frankly, no-one cares.
He has not had a bath for weeks,
And can't afford a drink,
And even dogs now shun him,
'cos they can't abide the stink.
He dozes on a park bench,
Or in a cardboard box.
He sleeps outside in doorways,
Still in his shoes and socks.
He never did like Chaplin,
To him, he was too clean,
With togs so big and black and posh,
As per the Hollywood dream.
He did like Laurel and Hardy, though,
They knew when they were wet,
Through rain, or pain, or Stan again,
Or occasionally, sweat.
Those days were rather simpler,
With such a lighter load.
People then were kinder,
To gentlemen of the road.