The Highway Man The man sat at the highway Walking to and fro by day A small, few feet were the job Money motorists would lob They’d see the empty bottles Demur and shake their heads They’d see the dirt and grime Say, “This should be a crime.” They gave him his cash And on they’d pass None wondering how he got there Or why he kept drinking Sure, he found food to eat but that didn’t keep him from thinking The motorists gave him cash But, alas, nothing to last Food: nourishment for his bowl But no one nourished his soul
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