There was once a man with a hole in his sweater,
He whistled to himself and looked upon others with a scowl.
A beaten leather bag hung from his weathered arm,
Moist with onions and oil his breath was foul.
The sun scorched the holes on his head,
And lines under his eyes counted his years.
His foot twitched as if he were ready to run,
As the marks on his chin reflected his tears.
His brown leather bag held his few prized possessions,
Bottles that warmed his heart and stole his days.
The hole on his sweater will always be seen,
Through hell he stands, firm in his ways.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
There was once a man with a hole in his sweater,
He whistled to himself and looked upon others with a scowl.
A beaten leather bag hung from his weathered arm,
Moist with onions and oil his breath was foul.
The sun scorched the holes on his head,
And lines under his eyes counted his years.
His foot twitched as if he were ready to run,
As the marks on his chin reflected his tears.
His brown leather bag held his few prized possessions,
Bottles that warmed his heart and stole his days.
The hole on his sweater will always be seen,
Through hell he stands, firm in his ways.