Timothy Winters

by Marlene Agius

Timothy Winters is no school boy now
He roams London streets like a mad-cow
The world cries he should win one’s spurs
Just by living the life of Timothy Winters

His stomach is empty, his hair’s falling out,
But no one makes a big deal about
Living alone with no place to hide
Losing teeth and sleeping outside

When pedestrians walk they won’t make a glance
Not being homeless they pay in advance,
They have credit cards as sharp as a knife
There is no exit to the modern life

Timothy Winters has frozen feet
And he lives on a bench on Liverpool Street,
Or dreams in a sleeping bag on the floor
And they say there aren’t men like him any more.

This Old Man Winters likes his beer
And his wife ran off with an engineer,
He sits on the pavement with with no escape
And Timothy’s in a very poor shape

The midnight workers lie awake
And go on working with hearts that ache
So Timothy drinks for his pain to ease up
And slowly goes on giving up

At Evening Prayers the Master helves
For men who have nothing but themselves
For anyone who has to sleep outside
Till the day came when Timothy died

No escape from the pavement,
No break from the world
Till the day where life and death whirled
Prayers did nothing, but in doubt, yet again
People will shout: Amen!