Eric wasn't dead quite yet,
Curling up, down on the ground,
The dirt and *****, of mornings wet,
The traffic was his dreamworlds sound.

Waking up, alone at 4,
His muscles ache from gravelled ground.
He tried to walk-off what was sore,
His bleeding back was swollen round.

Winter came without a sign,
The frost upon his beard, he feared,
Would cause the frost to bite whats fine;
Inside, he cried as young men leered.