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The Vagrant

The old vagrant moves,
Along the side of the road,
He doesn't really walk,
But hops just like a toad.
 
I drive without a windshield,
Near exit number four,
Still looking for directions,
With the map that's on the floor.
 
He doesn't know where he's going,
But he knows better than me,
Sometimes he sits and rests,
Under a big, tall, maple tree.
 
He doesn't care about,
What's behind or what's ahead,
But of course he'd rather sleep,
In a big, soft, comfortable bed.
 
Traveling and searching,
In this big, wide, open, tour,
He carries a sign that says:
"please feed me, I'm poor."
 
But it'll always be the same,
He won't go to work or school,
He'd rather use his thumb,
To seek out what is cool.
 



©1999-2019 Steve Bujanow

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