Black Jack looks into the distance
where the graveyard trees stand stark.
Cold grey day with drenching drizzle,
fungus grows on rotting bark.
Northern winds they show no pity,
leaves fall through the tomb-damp air;
Jackie pulls his collar up and spits
as passing youngsters stare.

(Spare a thought for Black Jack Garside,
spare a thought for such as him.
Spare a thought for Jackie
when the nights are drawing in.)

Army trenchcoat old and battered,
snake-belt fastened round his waist;
hob-nailed boots and moleskin trousers,
flat cap shields a ***** face.
None could say how old was Jackie,
seemed he’d always been around;
as a babe, an old tale had it,
on a doorstep he’d been found.

Black Jack always was a loner,
trudging through the village streets;
folks said you could smell him coming,
never washed and didn’t speak.
Mothers with their children walking
down the road to village school,
all would cross when Jack approached them,
“Just ignore him, he’s a fool!”

In his house he kept some chickens,
in his bath he kept his coal;
Black Jack burned a constant fire,
lived on eggs and on the dole.
Modern times were not for Jackie,
internet and mobile phones;
with his hens all pecking round him,
Jackie lived and died alone.

And sometimes when drenching drizzle
fills the streets with cold and damp,
teenage kids outside the Offy
throw stones at a passing *****.
Jackie pulls his coat around him,
and as laughing youngsters sneer,
spits a curse of pure wind-chill,
turns and slowly disappears.

(c) Hodgsongs 2018