NOTHING TO CALL HIS OWN

No worldly possessions has he
No food in a fridge or a colour TV
No new clothes to put on his back
No comfy shoes to get from a rack

Nothing to call his own except a plastic bag
Filled with his life and a disused fag
Can you imagine how that must be ?
Turn a blind eye you would rather not see

No money in his pocket for a warm drink
Nothing to take away his stench and stink
Can you imagine how that must be ?
I'm just so grateful he is not me