People on the streets of my home,

begging for your spare change,

no-one knows who they are,

none of them can be named.

 

Living in gutters and slums,

in cardboard boxes they sleep,

all the money they collect,

buys drugs but nothing to eat.

 

On their own since they were young,

always desperate and alone,

trying to find a quiet place,

that they could call a home.

 

Out there they barely survive,

getting by on public wealth,

they have no concerns at all,

for their sanity or health.

 

I search my pockets for change,

as i watch his trembling chin,

i find a handfull of loose coins,

so i drop them in his tin.

 

Down and out its true,

he's on his own,

down and out its true,

far from his home.