Tramp

	King
	The sun was low and the shadow was cold
	On the pale drawn face that was wrinkled and old.
	A newspaper coat hanging loose 'round his throat
	And the shoes on his feet, strips of leather tied up with rope.
	His uncombed hair and eyes that would stare
	At the people passing by who didn't know or didn't care.
	This poor old man he's all alone
	He's got no money or no home of his own
	The back street's his kitchen, the footpath's his hall
	And the chalk on the brick work are the pictures on his wall.
	And he lays down his head on the pavement, that's his bed
	And when he sleeps, his dreams fade away.
	Mmm …
	He walks down the street with his hands in his coat
	Looking down at his feet for a dog-end he could smoke.
	He thinks about food, good drinking and good fun
	As he searches through the dustbins, his life almost done.
	This poor old man he's all alone
	He's got no money or no home of his own
	The back street's his kitchen, the footpath's his hall
	And the chalk on the brick work are the pictures on his wall.
	And he lays down his head on the pavement, that's his bed
	And as he sleeps, his dreams fade away.

	King
	The sun was low and the shadow was cold
	On the pale drawn face that was wrinkled and old.
	A newspaper coat hanging loose ' round his throat
	And the shoes on his feet, strips of leather tied up with rope.
	His uncombed hair and eyes that would stare
	At the people passing by who didn' t know or didn' t care.
	This poor old man he' s all alone
	He' s got no money or no home of his own
	The back street' s his kitchen, the footpath' s his hall
	And the chalk on the brick work are the pictures on his wall.
	And he lays down his head on the pavement, that' s his bed
	And when he sleeps, his dreams fade away.
	Mmm
	He walks down the street with his hands in his coat
	Looking down at his feet for a dogend he could smoke.
	He thinks about food, good drinking and good fun
	As he searches through the dustbins, his life almost done.
	This poor old man he' s all alone
	He' s got no money or no home of his own
	The back street' s his kitchen, the footpath' s his hall
	And the chalk on the brick work are the pictures on his wall.
	And he lays down his head on the pavement, that' s his bed
	And as he sleeps, his dreams fade away.