It's hobo time,
finding my fingerless gloves,
picking up his one black sock instead,
wondering what's going to happen.
I wish you didn't want her dead-
I know you care much more than you tell me.
Stupid, stereotypical hobo heart-have no place to go.

A car passes by.
Time to think about my past,
reminisce on the good and the bad,
the sickening tragedy.
I don't want to look behind me,
I can already envision her there,
you looking at her constantly,
wanting to be beside her.
While I'm out here with my hobo heart,
& I can't ask the question.
My fingers are cold.

Will my eyes deceive me if I take a glance,
Will I see the spark I saw between you two in the past?
Tell me, sock, why let the spark happen?
But sock doesn't listen: you can't control human nature, might as well find a different occupation.

Truth be told, I don't want to look.
I don't trust you.
I know when your heart is lying.
(You still want her, this is how it happens.)