Foxes Have Holes

Tweedle-dee

He ain’t dumb

Perched by the road

Considered a bum

‘Tis not funny

He needs money

I, in turn

Express concern

He does not require

My hearth or home fire

Simple he is, you see

Frantic to remain free

He trails into the night

With only the stars for light

And nibbles a tiny snack

Lying flat on his back

Staring at the changing moon

Humming an unknown tune

Some say he is a drinker

But perhaps a different thinker

An inner city blight

Or tired of the fight

Possessed by mental disease

Or doing as he may please

We are so very sure

Our path is just and pure

We cling to tried tradition

And rebuke his odd rendition

Unsure of what he may feel

We are certain he will steal

Making the beggar beg some more

Having the means but slamming the door

We decide for him what is best

A family, friends, a feathered nest

He’s a sparrow, needing to fly

Weary of the struggle, the perpetual lie

All he needs is a little cash

A tiny piece of my stash

So will I offer condemnation?

Or allow my heart consideration

Foxes have holes, said the carpenter’s son

But I sleep alone … when the day is done