The Wanderer (I)
Just a measley cur on the street,
With a bullet-hole in his head,
Lying here where the feet
Of the hurrying thousands tread;
Lying here limp and dead.
"A waif" and a "mongrel bum,"
But some kid's eyes are red
As he waits for his canine chum.
Just a measley cur in the street,
Frowsy and thin and marred,
Not one of the "dog elite,"
But somehow it's sort of hard
That a boy should lose his "pard"
Who played in the slums with him,
For a childish heart is scarred
And a childish joy is dim.
Just a measley cur in the street,
To be hauled, like the dirt, away;
No more will his dog heart beat,
Nor his yelp resound at play.
He's only a mongrel stray,
Whom the law says to destroy,
And it's right, of course; but say,
I'll bet that it hurts some boy.
(signed Burton Braley)
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