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Hard is stone in small of back,
Cold, the bottle at his side.
Resolved was he, unto his fate,
to drift upon whatever tide.
Discomforted, sudden, he looks up,
to structure wrote in Victorian years.
through brambles, where he thought him safe,
now startled by the sound of jeers.
Soon he’s ready, far to flee,
from the drunken face of Friday night.
from anger born of ignorance,
of what had put him in this plight.
From field and bush to city roof,
from squat to shelter in a door,
He ran away from everyone,
Trust proven, he could ill afford.
In later years his life he wrecked,
he never chanced to seek friendship,
For no matter the softness of the bed,
He remains forever under Hammersmith Bridge.