The Vagabond.

There is a restaurant over yonder
On top of that lonely old hill.
It is owned by a ragged vagabond
Who the System could not kill.

The moment he could wander
He left his employer's estate
He wandered up the pathway
He wandered out the gate.

The first time the system attacked him,
He was standing by a tree.
The System cut that tree down
And nearly squashed him like a flea.

Then he was minding his own business
Right by a railroad track.
The System saw him sitting there 
And, without warning, launched a sneak attack.

But his reflexes were like lightning
Honed from years of being free.
So he turned that attack back at them
And the System let him be.

But the System it remembered
It knew how to hold a grudge
And when that man opened his restaurant,
The system hired a judge.

The judge he came a'calling
But the vagabond knew the score.
He won that judge with pie and wine
And showed the System the open door.

Now the vagabond is older
He lies awake at night
He sleeps with one eye open
Waiting for the System to strike.

So take a lesson from the vagabond
If you want to be truly free
The System will try to own you,
It will never let you be.

And yet he lived his life
The way that he saw fit.
When the System came a'calling.
He never gave way to it.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

4 thoughts on “The Vagabond.”

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