A sonnet in iambic hexameter
Looking for somewhere to rest, or something to eat.
Wears clothes cold and damp, from the rain and the snow.
His body is weary, and, so sore are his feet.
Though he once had a life. Ah, but now it's all past.
Wife, family and children, the house and the Jag.
How could anyone blame him for being downcast.
Now the height of his pleasure's a half-smoken fag.
Lives a life with no meaning, no purpose, no hope.
Evokes pity or censure according to type.
He has fallen too far, down the slippery slope.
His kind are far too easy to stereotype.
For most he's forgotten, just as soon as he's left.
No part of humanity, a poor thing bereft.