The bum comes trembling to our door,
He’s starved and
cold and weak and sore.
Through whiskers full of snow and ice,
He humbly begs you
for the price.
He no doubt is a lazy skate
Who never tries to
pay the freight;
No doubt he loafs on summer days,
When every busy
farmer pays
A handsome wage to those who’ll toil,
And push the
plowshare through the soil.
No doubt he is a chronic shirk,
Who has it in for
honest work.
No doubt the kopeck you bestow
Will to the grog
dispenser go.
Yet loosen up nor ask the bo
If rum has brought
him down so low.
And can the helpful moral spiel
That you have wound
upon your reel,
All suffering to be unwound;
For snow is deep
upon the ground,
And bitter is the winter air,
And hungry means a
bleak despair.
Jack up the beggar man in May,
If he won’t help to
put up hay;
But when he teeters to your door,
To touch you for a
dime or more,
Upon a wintry morn, dig up, dig up,
Nor point with
scorn.
--Walt
Mason
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