Busker Joe

Angry man consoling not

His wheelchair in a grove

Passer byes give not a jot

He’ll not ask help to move

.

For his king and country fought

To keep his homeland free

Shrapnel in his legs he caught

Were cut off at the knee

.

Sent home to rehabilitate

A broken spirited man

Drinking to inebriate

Became his daily plan

.

On the streets of London Town

Watching young life go by

With his guitar would settle down

And sing songs to make you cry

.

Busker Joe he was soon known

A character of ill repute

Living on the odd coppers thrown

By the smart executive suit

.

He sang his songs of futile war

Of love he’d never seen

In grim city rotten to the core

He sang of fields so green

.

He sang for those that were ill

He sang for those in need

He sang for young that lost their will

That on the needle feed

.

His songs cut to the deep

Their meaning was so clear

Were meant to disturb the sleep

Make conscience pick with fear

.

Angry man with tear stained face

His wheelchair can not move

His angry words that disgrace

Only heaven would approve