The recorder player
A well-spoken gent, mild mannered and with grace, Yet he’s the most iconic of homeless face, Because he sits everyday on his Market Street throne, In all kinds of weather, without a grumble or groan.
His work ethic crafted from when Britain was great, He clocks in every day and not once is he late, He sets up in the morning as the workers flood in, And grafts all day long until the late even-ing.
Until the workers go home and pass him once more, In the hope that they flick some change to his floor, To pay for his bedsit, to pay for his tea, To pay for his rizla and rolling baccie.
His lips might be sore but they play all day long, As his recorder kicks out its crescendo-ing song, The notes runaway like pleas in the air, Can you pay for my breakfast or my daily bus fare?
Can you help an old man as he strives every day? To cough up enough coins to just pay his way? So he can pay for his supper and pay for his bed, And pay for the roof that goes over his head.
For years he’s been playing, politely every day, In the hope that you’ll pass some spare change his way, So flick him a couple of pounds as you pass, And fumble internally at the questions you’d ask.
Like where are your family, does nobody care? How did society fail to leave you playing there? But he doesn’t mind, his good mood never stops, He just continuously plays as you look round the shops,
As you get on with your day and he drifts from your mind, Yet his place on these streets will always be defined, Because you’d miss his music if it wasn’t there, If his notes weren’t floating on the Mancunian air.
But don’t feel sorry for our recorder player is proud, Of the music he makes and his continual sound, And even though more care would be heaven sent, He’s delighted to play for he is independent.