Up at Five Ways there's a bloke
With an old school colour coat
Nineteen'fifty'five for swimming
Nineteen'fifty'six for boat

And he's lurking near the checkouts
Or the park bench near the street
And he's too frail for the trollies
But he keeps the baskets neat

And I doubt that Woolworth pays him
Still he's 'on' most every day
I know nothing of his assets
Did he piss them all away?

And why the prestige blazer?
Why the nylon campus tie?
Almost every day clean shaven
But the red lines in his eye

Hint at something vaguely sordid
Is the background on the square?
Did he pick patrician clothing
At an op'shop or a fair?

Has he more solid foundations
That he needs us all to know
Should he not be more embarassed
About all he has let go

Should I pity his demise
Or just deride his pompous end
What will stop me being like him?
Education? Don't pretend.

There is no offence, no error
Nothing for the man to hide
But his daily dressing mocks him
Pride and shame. His shame and pride.