Please Follow Along With The Poem Below.
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Along the lanes, through fields so wide,
The tramps of old would slowly stride.
Not beggars bold, nor addicts wild,
But gentle souls, both meek and mild.
With circuits set from town to town,
They’d trade their work, not beg for alms.
A garden trimmed, a yard swept clear,
Earned bread and tea, provisions dear.
On cottage walls, with chalk they’d mark,
A secret code for those who hark.
A friendly house, a kindly hand,
A safe night’s rest across the land.
With prams that held their worldly store,
A tarp, some clothes, and little more.
The smoke of fires their nightly shroud,
A life both humble, free, and proud.
The village tramp was known by name,
And neighbours cared, without disdain.
But times soon changed, trust ebbed away,
By Seventies’ dawn, fear held its sway.
The “scallywags” came, rough and sly,
And trust grew scarce, doors locked up tight.
The gentlemen of road grew few,
Their kindly ways obscured from view.
Yet still I see old Joe’s warm fire,
Halfway up White Hill’s long desire.
A cup of tea, some stories spun,
A kindly rest when nights were done.
Once, drunk and lost, I woke to find,
His smoky camp, his welcome kind.
He let me sleep on straw and leaves,
And saw me off with tea at eve.
Though ash had stained my suit of grey,
I thank old Joe until this day.
A diamond true, though worn and poor,
A tramp, a friend—forever more.
…. Catch Ya Later Joe …
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