The Wino

Old and dirty and stinking of wine,
He shuffled along the bus queue line.
His blackened face was scarred and worn,
His ragged trousers badly torn.
Not a single one was willing
To give the poor old sod a shilling.
Ne’er a kindly word was spoken,
Stony silence dragged unbroken.
Uncomfortable at being harassed,
They turned their eyes away, embarrassed.
His vacant eyes did not express
The slightest trace of bitterness.
So when he reached me in the queue,
I knew just what I ought to do.
I cleared my throat and gave a cough,
And muttered to him, “No, sod off!”