Classic Poem

I WONDER 'neath what ban
His worthless life began,
And where he learned to say,
As I hear him every day:
" Cinco centavos? "

No one has ever heard
Him say another word;
He may know more, 'tis true,
But he'll only answer you:
" Cinco centavos? "

He's such a queer old boy,
With his pants of corduroy
And his faded velvet coat,
While he says, as if by rote:
" Cinco centavos? "

His shirt is ancient, too.
He wears one boot, one shoe,
And he twirls a shabby cane
As he chants the old refrain:
" Cinco centavos? "

His hair has not been cut
Since he washed his face of smut
Years ago, when he was neat
And knew not to repeat:
" Cinco centavos? "

Each day he tramps the town,
Tho' the rain is pouring down,
With the mud up to his knees,
Greeting every one he sees:
" Cinco centavos? "

He sleeps beneath the pier —
If you listen, you can hear
The echoes grumbling deep
As he murmurs in his sleep:
" Cinco centavos? "

The fate in store for him
Must be a synonym
Of the woful wretchedness
His only words express:
" Cinco centavos? "