His hair is long and straggly his pants torn at the knees
The old man in the parkland who keeps shouting at the trees
A homeless poor old fellow and of him it is said
That he should be in an asylum he is not right in the head
He is not deemed to be dangerous since he would not harm a fly
And young lovers in the park ignore him as hand in hand they go walking by
On the pathway where he is standing at the trees he shout and swear
Whilst the wildborn birds are piping in the balmy evening air
A mentally ill poor fellow with shoulder length unkempt grey hair
Perhaps in his early seventies for him none does seem to care
Without a friend in the World and himself his only foe
Recognized by all of the locals yet of him none does wish to know
The evening it is balmy with a cool and freshening breeze
As he stands there on the pathway shouting at the parkland trees.

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