Poetry

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He wanders the road with no house for a home,
A tattered old coat on his back,
Considers us fools, encumbered by rules;
One could envy the life of the tramp.
He's not confined to following blind
The precedents set by the Jones'
And no one can say the tramp's sorry today
For choosing his life on the road.
Great lawyers abound in all major towns
To interpret the laws of the land,
And doctors compete with professors elite
To kill the diseases of man;
They perfect a new cure which they claim is secure,
Then a deadlier sickness arrives.
The laws of the land are changed on demand;
Confusion's the rule of our lives.
The tramp doesn't care if the world is shaped square
Or the ice age returns once again;
As for going to the moon-"it will only bring ruin
'Cause everyone's striving for gain.
When the atom bomb falls 'twill wipe out us all
And tomorrow will never more come."
The tramp is just glad for the good life he's had--
His wonderful years "on the bum."
Now I don't advocate that we all imitate
The tramp and the way of his kind,
But its worth taking note that his tattered old coat
Hides a person of content behind.
Sometimes they're dismissed as curious misfits,
As if cast from a different die;
So often we're wrong, thinking no one belongs
Unless they are like you and I.
But God made all men as reflections of Him,
And in all, the image is marred;
If it wasn't for grace the whole human race
Would always from Heaven be barred;
God respects all the same, takes no note of fame;
In His sight the whole world is lost;
If the tramp, like us all, would answer Christ's call,
We would all leave our rags at the Cross.

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