I met a homeless lad by Kelvin’s bank Joint in hand, he offered me a puff As he spoke in clouds of potent smoke “How cold it was the night before The rain clapped and the thunder roared, I felt it sleeping rough and waking up As wet as a drunken sailor on the shore.” Soaked head-to-toe, he shivered as he spoke, In his torn and holey clothes, He hoped his punch would set him free And give him a shot at the UFC. He asked to try his punch on me Then he walloped me, and back I fell Until the river swallowed me. I ached for days, no doubt his punch Was good enough to kill and maim But it seemed wrong to me That a poor man’s blood is cheap enough To spill for fun and entertainment But still his bones and blood could not pay For any home or hearth or even water to bathe. His words haunt me to this day As I eat food as good and sleep as warm As the joint he shared with me that day.