Tales of a bum’s life

There was a man I knew who lived

Next to the boiler room.

Johnny was sixty and still climbing.

He was surrounded by

Piles and piles of newspapers

Read or unread/who’s to know?

He was as thin as a pencil

And he wore a goatee

That had been brushed up with

Shoe-polish to make him appear

Young, he smoked incessantly,

And considering the mountain

Of paper he lived in he lived

A charmed life. Johnny told

Me his son was an airline

Pilot and one day he was

Going to take him out

Of this place.

I got real mean on him

Once and called him a

Bum. I felt bad and bought

Him a book on the movies.

He loved the movies;

Man, he sure loved

That book.

 

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