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Mother! "Why do other's speak of the unfortunate man?"
Is it his shoes don't match
His clothes are tattered and torn
He does not have a job
"Why must he walk the street's with a basket?"
Collecting his can's
Other's utter "where must he sleep"
I never see him panhandling
Nor, do I see him beg
Friend's tell me he lives in a cardboard box
Many call him weird
My Son, "we must not judge"
For he is just a man
His clothes are clean
Though a little tattered and torn
As for his basket
It may be filled with his many treasure's
He earns his keep collecting his can's
That is his job!
And his cardboard box is his home and castle