Old gray hat, high water pants
Watch the bums do their wayward dance
With booze in hand and money have they none
The old bums cry and die for fun
In Portland town near the river streets
Is the haven of transients who beg for treats
Will their ship come in to carry them away
Or will they turn their backs and keep their stay?
What do they think? Does anyone care?
Do they like rummaged clothes and matted, gray hair?
What makes them so proud? What is it they lack?
Do their secrets lie hidden in a brown paper sack?
I watch the bums frolic down Burnside Street
They mosey and stagger to a slack downbeat
Old gray hat, high water pants
Watch the bums do their wayward dance
Hotel lobbies bear the high-class crowd
Who sleep in beds that cover the loud?
The see-through curtains, the patchwork rugs
The peeling wallpaper, the biting bedbugs
Rolls and coffee in the morning then it’s out the door they go
Telling those around them to relax and take it slow
They’re mentally ill, depressed and often seen in twos
They’re poor and drab alike wearing third generation shoes
They’re relentless, often crazy, a poor and guilty lot
They’re the sad and simple ones with the little silver pots
Throw a nickel, cast a dime, nod your head and walk away
Say a prayer for all the bums for their day is just a day
I pray for all the bums, God knows they need love too
Who knows maybe the bums are praying for folks like me and you
Old gray hat, high water pants
Watch the bums do their wayward dance