We cancelled today,
we cancelled tomorrow,
because we do not barely have any time,
we do not barely have any time to beg steal and borrow,
so, we have cancelled today,
and we have cancelled tomorrow,
for the time is now,
and there is no time,
for the end of time for someone has come and we must run,
run away from what we have to do and what we have to say,
because the funeral is here and there is such great sadness as there always is when the grim reaper comes to play,
and today as always,
there is such great sadness hanging heavily above us,
and only time for tears,
only time for tears,
tears amidst the rain,
tears amidst the coffins and the graves,
tears by the graveside,
dressed in black and in hats,
as a crow sits upon a tree,
a crow sits upon a tree,
and we stand in misery, we stand in misery,
with the Vicar before us,
and the coffin in the grave,
wooden and plain, wooden, and plain,
a pauper in the rain, a pauper in the rain,
found upon the street, a homeless man,
yes, a homeless man,
who know one barely knew,
anything of except for his first name,
his first name until today,
and the Vicar reads his name out loud,
David Edwards,
David Edwards, the Vicar says,
and then reads out the eulogy, and the little that was found,
a few handwritten notes inside his jacket,
with a tobacco tin and a picture of an old girlfriend and him,
and in the tin,
the handwritten notes,
with the rough outline of his life’s history,
David, was born in Greenwich, London,
and adopted at the age of three,
and David's adopted parents tried their best,
but he was as rebellious as could be,
and he,
he ended up on the streets,
before someone took him in,
and he eventually joined the merchant navy,
and he travelled the world upon the oceans and the seas,
and he worked hard and playing hard,
and had a girl in every port,
girls whose names he could not remember,
but he was happy, he was happy as can be,
and he travelled the world for years,
and eventually settled down and married and had a wife,
a wife who after several years died in a car crash,
and his life, it spiralled into misery, into misery,
and he was no longer happy,
no longer happy,
and he began drinking heavily,
and he ended up on the streets far away in America,
until he got lucky and made his way home,
after sneaking onto a boat headed for Liverpool,
and after he made it home,
he tried to stop the drinking,
but it was not to be,
not to be,
not to be,
for he was haunted by the memory of his wife,
who died in a car crash,
a car crash that he did not see,
but she crashed,
she crashed into a tree,
a tree,
and his life continued into misery,
and the last words that he wrote,
upon the notes that he made,
said simply,
help me,
help me,
help me please,
and they were written in big letters in marker pen,
and seemingly written rather rapidly,
and the note was found in his hand,
as he laid dead upon the street, in the cold winter snows,
the cold winter snows in which he had frozen,
which he had frozen to death, with barely any clothes,
barely any clothes,
and here we stand,
remembering the man,
remembering the man David Edwards,
as the grey clouds hover above,
and we pray for him,
and for him to be received by God,
and to receive God's love,
and as we pray for him,
we pray for him to be taken into heaven,
and we stand in the cold cold rain,
only knowing his first and his last name,
a good turn out, a good turn out, beside the pauper’s grave,
but awful just the same, and such a shame, such a shame,
a life of mostly misery,
and agony and pain,
a life of mostly misery,
and agony and pain,
oh, such a shame,
another life gone,
another lonely soul,
another life ended far too early,
a tragedy that should never happen,
but it continues to happen,
far too regularly anyway just the same,
a victim of modern society,
a victim of life’s hard cold reality,
a terrible shame,
a thought, a reflection,
a quiet reflection, beside a pauper’s grave.
