A drunken hobo's fall from grace
How did he ever get to this dreadful place?
What was he like with his other face?
When did he realize he lost the race?
Suckin' on a bottle , hopin' his mind can erase
The dreadful journey to this God awful place.
"Move it along now", says the cop.
"You're takin' up too much space!"
Searchin' for family. Not even a trace.
A drunken hobo's fall from grace.
Guy in a suit yells "Get a job!"
"Work like the rest of us, ya drunken slob!"
This whole new world seems like an angry mob.
He whispers softly "I'm not a slob. My friends called me
Bob."
All alone to ponder. Beg, steal, or rob?
Ladies walk by, clutching their mace.
A drunken hobo's fall from grace.
Standin' out front of a convenience store
Beggin' for dimes, needin' just one more.
All because of some lousy war.
That not too many people particularly cared for.
Hobblin' around. Such a chore.
Only one leg, but who's keepin' score?
Clutching tightly his medal of valor.
Which he received in some God forsaken war.
A war which none particularly cared for.
Once a hero. He's now not so sure.
It's not a topic he likes to explore.
He has enough now. For a 6 pack, 12, maybe a case
Not much else these days helps him erase
A haunting memory of a relentless chase.
A drunken hobo's fall from grace.
A hero forgotten without a trace.
All he remembers is a battlefield in some far away place
And tortured images of a soldier's bloody face
As he sucks down the last of his case.
Water from a dirty puddle gets splashed in his face.
A drunken hero's fall from grace.
by Ron Ryan
... who is a retired policeman, an entrepreneur, and a novice
poet; this is his first published poem.
