hobo

I want to share a poem my sister wrote. She’s the woman who inspired my poem Mother of Squalor. With all its bizarre grammar and madness it is the truest thing thing I’ve read in awhile, with her in mind, and her permission, hobo –

hobo

im a hobo a hobo and im doing it solo

ive got boxes and boxes and holes in my shoes

im homeless but that dont mean im gonna lose

im here alive this isnt a life that you just chose

 

my den is my haven its under a bridge

u dont need money to feel this rich

im happy and peacful full of dreams

i just wish i had a can of beans

 

ive got rats there multiplying

and i cant take no more

there chewing holes in my carboard home

oh i wish they would leave me alone

 

my carboard den is unreal such a frill

the joys of building a mobile home

its so much fun an i have no bills

its small and cold and i love being alone

 

at nightime i sit in the window of shops

begging and begging for a pound in my box

but these little bastards always bring me something hot

but all i want is a tenner to bye some pot

 

i love getting high smoking pot

it chills me out and helps me sleep

helps the pain when the rats chew my feet

theyve had two toes already they think im a piece of meat

 

ive set up traps with my boxes

but them little rats are smart

i even tryed to get them eaten by foxes

but the fox didnt wanna take part

 

if only the people who look down at me

would give me a pound so i can buy rat killer

to kill these pests so i can rest happily

but fuck it thats life such a shame i dont have a knife

 

im a hobo im a hobo and im happy this way

it sounds like hell but its all i need

im gonna go busking now see if i can get someone to pay

to get some pot and brighten my day