The Tramp On Northumberland Street

Unwelcome, unloved, unwanted, sitting on a park bench,
The smell of his bottle of cider mixes with the unwashed stench.
Sipping the cider slowly and trying not to feel
The hardness of the passers by who stare as cold as steel.

So this is Newcastle City
And this is Northumberland Street,
Where he asks the people for money
And hears their running feet.
He's only an alcoholic,
Or that's what people think,
'Don't give him any money,
He'll only spend it on drink.'

But even an alcoholic would sometimes like to eat,
A packet of crisps, perhaps a pie, or something nice and sweet.
Oh yes, he does drink often but people cannot see
His emptiness, his deep despair, his pain and misery.