The Eyes of an Outcast

Three old friends from my childhood.

 

THE EYES OF AN OUTCAST

Turn your collar to the wind

For the world it can grow cold

I looked into the eyes of an outcast

I shudder at the stories that they told

 

Mary use to walk the road

Some said she loved to roam

She’d entertain with tales of woe

In the comfort of your home

 

She was a Rural Bag Lady

Seeking shelter from the pain

Feeling every kind of hunger

In her struggle to stay sane

 

Mary got abused at home

So at home she wouldn’t stay

Mary chose to walk the road

She got abused along the way

 

You could sit and watch

While Mary cried

For a very decent fee

A performance filled with passion

For just a cup of tea

 

Years have passed since Mary roamed

But I remember well

The smiling Christian faces

While poor Mary walked through hell

 

Turn your collar to the wind

For the world it can grow cold

I looked into the eyes of an outcast

I shudder at the stories that they told

 

Red was a joker

A clown of a sort

Spent half his life in the bottle

And the other half in court

 

He traded job and family

For a night on the town

When the night was over

There was no one around

 

Red would sit for hours

And watch life pass him by

With the spirit of a small town man

He’d laugh when he’d want to cry

 

When the sadness overwhelmed him

He’d take a break from pain

He’d roll off of the wagon

Then climb back up again

 

Sobriety to Red

Was like a foreign land

He didn’t know the language

And no-one would lend a hand

 

The Red that was a joker

The Red that wore a smile

Was the Red that wasn’t lonely

At least not for a while

 

Turn your collar to the wind

For the world it can grow cold

I looked into the eyes of an Outcast

I shudder at the stories that they told

 

You could say that he was famous

In the small Nova - Scotia town

He had a one man travelling show

And they tried to close it down

 

John would buy a bottle

His medicine for pain

You could watch the curtains lifting

Then watch John go insane

 

He’d rant and rave and sometimes laugh

With friends he never had

There never was a question

John McGee was mad

 

He’d perform on every corner

Live theatre at its best

Sometimes he’d go for hours

Not even stop to rest

 

You could see he was exhausted

As they’d cart him off to jail

In the morning he’d be free again

But his madness had no bail

 

Turn your collar to the wind

For the world it can grow cold

I looked into the eyes of an outcast

I shudder at the stories that they told

 

 

Reviews

[Poeticpiers]

the truth is revealed in poetic prose. Every bum has a story to tell but few have patience to listen and even fewer understand but for the grace of God they could have been that bum