The Next Stop



The man has a face like a frog

Squashed by a falling log

He has stubble halfway to a beard

He’s really rather weird


His trousers rise too high

Over his bulging belly

And yet he tugs them up

I think he might be smelly


He stares with a frowning look

A grump on the edge of complaint

He staggers a bit getting off

His jacket’s smeared with old paint


Kids probably shout things at him

He probably struggles with soap

What was he like, that young man

Who started with health and with hope?

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