Welcome my friend
to these Days of You.
Are you new in this town
or just passing through?

See, times have been tight
and few have been spared.
So, give if you can
or take if you dare.

But don’t pass him by
without paying respect.
That’s George lying there
to all our regret.

See, George was a poet
or hadn’t you heard?
A lyrical genius,
a lover of words.

An artist of sorts,
a jack of all trade.
The king of the street
on the block which he laid.

His castle was cardboard;
employment his cup.
And everyone knew
George never got up.

His feet were all blistered;
his shoes badly worn.
His face old and dirty;
his clothes poorly torn.

He smelled like a sewer;
his stomach quite large.
But George loved all of us
and we all loved poor George.

See, George lived on 5th Street
behind Murphy’s bar.
The alley his pasture;
the streetlight his star.

He had no address,
but he lived all the same.
Yes, George was the king
and that his domain.

And just before twilight,
when the horizon grew dim
you’d find George cuddled up
to his bottle of gin.

Inspiring himself
to a blissful delight
while we all gathered round
to hear him recite.

Yes, people would come,
and they’d crowd by the fire.
And George would recite
for all to admire.

Sometimes he was dismal,
sometimes he was gay.
Sometimes he just sat there
with nothing to say.

And sometimes he’d slur
the whole night long.
And we’d laugh, and we’d point
and we’d all cheer him on.

But George didn’t care
if we laughed or we scorned.
So long as we stayed,
he loved to perform.

And when it was over
his eyes would get wide.
He’d lift up his cup
and swallow his pride.

“A nickel my friend?”
is all he would say.
And I’d watch as the angels
would all walk away.

But some would pitch in,
a few here and there.
Nothing too daring,
just what they could spare.

A penny for pity,
a modest reward
partly insulting
but never ignored.

A nickel was fair,
nothing more, nothing less.
A dime was sublime
at twice the request.

A quarter was caring
mixed with regret.
And anything more
George would never forget.

“I’m grateful my friend”,
he’d say with a sigh.
“Are you sure you can spare it?”,
he’d often reply.

And strangely enough,
he meant every word.
He took what he needed
but gave if he could.

He’d give you his heart,
his alley, his home.
And with George as your friend
you were never alone.

Yes, George was the fairest,
the fairest I knew.
A welcome relief
in these Days of You.

So, please understand
as you’re walking along
there may come a day
when you’re singing his song.

So, don’t pass him by
without paying respect.
That’s George lying there
to all our regret.