There he sat in the soft falling rain
waiting, watching, for a midnight train.
His knap-sack hung loosely by his side
He, in somber silence, would hitch a ride.

As he sat by this old railroad track
memories of another time
kept flashing back.
A time when he could spare a dime.
A time when he wore clothes, so fine.

When he was young, handsome and strong,
Slept in a fine goose down bed...
dreams of a great future ahead.
wondering now, where he had gone wrong.
Strumming his tune...singing his song.

Yes, life had passed him by
his youth was spent..
As he sat by the track, he started to cry
Once pockets jingling, where-ever he went.
Now, full of holes ... he hadn't a cent.

It's not what you do, that does you in
It's what you didn't do, from within.
procrastination is a costly sin.
It doesn't matter, at the end of the day
when your man comes, to take you way.

He took out his old banjo, strumming a tune
about a man called Bo Jangles
and a pair of worn out shoes.
His rain drenched face, through a pale moon light
showed stress and regrets,as he strummed his blues
into the cold, damp night

In the distance, in drizzling rain,
he could heard that lonesome whistle
of an oncoming train.
His worldly belongings, slung loosely upon his back,
slowly moving, around the bend, upon the track

As he had done so many times before,
jump into the cargo compartment,
and land on the floor.
Tired, worn with age, not at his best.
He missed the door....You know the rest.

In the shimmerimg light of a pale harvest moon...
You can still hear him
Strumming, strumming his sorrowful tune.

by Patricia Stockdale-Tersi