The stench emanating from unwashed feet,
In abandoned buildings on a dead street.
No place to even lay your head.
A cardboard box, your only bed
The cold morning air and ceiling leaks,
Stirs alcoholics, dopefiends, and crackhead freaks.
Milk crates strewn about used as chairs,
While some replace the missing stairs.
Off to panhandle the middle class,
Through dope needles, stems, and broken glass.
Racked with disease, sickness, and strife,
This is the story of the homeless life.
Where did this devastation all begin,
From drugs, the system, or maybe kin.
Blindly pointing at someone to blame
To justify your life of shame.
