Under that big stone bridge where the sun don’t shine,
there’s an old gray bum with some homemade wine.

He ain’t never gave a fuck and he don’t give a damn,
he just drinks all day since he got back from ’Nam.

He stinks like shit and he stinks like booze,
and his last piece of pussy was some cracked out cooze.

He’ll ask you for a dollar and he’ll ask you for a dime,
and he’ll tell you his sad story if you’ve got some time.

If he needs a bite to eat or some time in the heat,
he heads to the shelter a little farther up the street.

They won’t take him drunk and they won’t take him high,
so most of his nights are spent beneath the sky.

If you offer him some food, he’ll surely turn it down,
no need to chew up what you’ll puke on the ground.

“Go get a fucking job,” you yell to him on the street,
always being sure to keep moving those feet.

“I might be a hobo,” he yells with a middle finger wave,
“but you and I know you’re just a well-dressed slave!”