I've written a poem about this homeless man who lives near me. The other day I noticed him because I thought he was really fit and then I realised he was homeless. I see him about twice a day with his mates, for some reason they have amassed loads of furniture and they just sit off in the same spot every day. As it's the 7th arrondissement 'the most exclusive neighbourhood in Paris' I don't know how they haven't been moved on yet.
I was Googling 'Sexy Homeless Man' just to see what came up and I found a story about this homeless guy in China who has become an internet sensation because he dresses quite cool and is pretty sexy:
Apparently though he is really disturbed and people scare him when they approach him. People don't realise that a lot of homeless people have severe learning difficulties and have slipped through the net. This is why they are homeless. It's not because they are lazy or on drugs. And even if a homeless person does spend all their pennies on drugs, can you blame them? What else are they going to do? I'd rather be sat on the streets all day and night smacked off my tits than sober, wouldn't you?
Anyway, here's my poem!
Sexy Homeless Man
She’s rushing, so she has to pound
her feet down heavily as she turns around
the corner, where fellers with matted hair
sit on their furniture and stare
from inside of their outside home,
so she slows down and begins to roam
past the hobo crew, and she tries to look gracious
and honestly, she’s not being salacious
but one of them is quite fit.
She thinks ‘If I was dead rich,
I would definitely
his sugar mammy be
and I’d buy him a real house
where I would obviously de-louse
him first, but then I could pay
him a visit any time of the day
for sexy time.’ But alas and alack,
he’s probably hooked on crack.
He’s just a dirty tramp
who lives in a camp
on the corner of Avenue de Suffren
And then she thinks ‘Oh, stuff them.’
As they throw bottles at her, because they think
It’s funny, but then he winks…
How bad would it be, really,
to date a homeless person? Clearly
she is quite desperate, but still
where there’s a sexy man, there’s a will.
Suddenly, she looks at her watch face
and it’s time to quicken the pace
so she gathers speed
and takes no heed
of the homeless crew as they yell in French
from their prime position on a broken bench.
But as she crosses over
she looks over her shoulder
and wonders why he lives on the street
and she wishes that she could meet
him in another life
where he has no strife
and instead he had
a rich mum and dad
and a big trust fund
because then if he bummed
round Paris, nobody would care
and his look would be cool, as would his hair.
But as it is, he sleeps on the streets
of the City of Light
And he keeps all the feats
Of his shitty ol' life
And you might think it’s strange
That I fancy a man who asks for spare change
But maybe you would see something too
If you took a good look at the man sur les rues
Ha, on second thoughts, I'm sure all you'll see
Is a dirty tramp man who smells like wee.