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A cardboard ceiling
and a concrete bed
Some old rags
to rest my head.

In a tattered pocket
theres not a pence
The back of my recliner
is a cyclone fence

A shopping cart
I use for wheels
To collect those cans
I trade for meals

My backyard under
a freeway ramp
Where I sometimes
set up camp

I cannot fortell the
the days ahead
But I still Thank God
that I am not dead