He’d prowl the street quite indiscreet, a ciggie butt retriever.

He’d kiss a baby, kiss a dog, if any were around.

He’d pick up pennies, anything that’s shiny, off the ground.

Cops would yell, “Hey! Dumb as hell! Get yourself back inside!”

He’d make like he had a home and find some place to hide.

For a week he’d roamed the road with nothing much to show.

An iron pipe, a can of tripe, a button-shaped rainbow.

His dream was that he owned the world, the last man left behind.

The rain came hard. The wind blew cold. The season was not kind.

So, when the radio call came, a dead man in the gutter,

the police knew that it must be Gus, the roving hobo nutter.

Four men in plastic suits arrived and threw him in a truck.

No obit, funeral, even prayers. Seemed no one gave a fuck.