The Beggarman


The cruel wind brings suffering,
Blowing through the dead o’ night.
Something moves out from the covering
And crawls towards the light.
A weary man is shuffelling,
Way in the dead o’ night.
The poor soul is beggarin’
It’s a cruel and heartless life.

The gutter stinks o’ bad pig bone,
Way in the dead o’ night.
Say, Mister Mayor, he ain’t got no home,
And he looks a filthy sight.
From the scar upon his waving hand,
A plea to do what’s right.
So long he’s been a’crouchin’ there,
Way in the dead o’ night.

Can you spare a dime for a sufferin’ man?
Before his end is due.
‘Cause he’s dyin’ in this begotten land
And he’s beggarin’ at you.

1971, December

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