The sad rags hung about her frame,
she had played but lost the game,
on the streets now, she gets by,
on the edge but never dies.

Hope lives eternal or so they say,
the ones on the street simply pray,
one foot in front of the other,
trudging along even further.

Under bridges around fifty-five gallon drums,
they stand and warm with the other bums,
or that's what society labels them today,
they wouldn't be here if there was any other way.

So scrape and scrape, and scrape some more,
just to live and eat and score,
a bed here and a meal there,
that's why you see them everywhere