trash can man holds out a battered cup
praying for kind-hearted passers-by to fill it up

people step around, some call him a schmuck
others stumble over him while telling him 'get fucked'

sometimes it isn't always easy as it seems
certain circumstances lead us to bathe in the streams

saltines and water on the daily teeter-totter
cup of coffee and if he's lucky maybe a little blotter

no one knows his history, and no one seems to care
was he in Vietnam or did he encounter a bear

started out a baggage clerk at Chicago-O'hare
now he's panhandling for your bus fair

declare, take a dare, say a little prayer, he's in disrepair
ignore him so you can buy your Vanity Fair

kick it in your easy chair, read your Moliere
and leave him looking pitiful in the city square.

one rainy tuesday morning a man drops him a ten
he hasn't had a decent meal for a while; a godsend

he heads to the mcdonalds down the block
opening the door he's landed his Plymouth Rock

storefront is a welcoming pagoda
the menu's dressed in fries burgers and soda

orders a Big Mac, medium fries and a drink
wolfs that motherfucker down in one wink

he asks for a job, no requisites around here
he smells like a cocktail of shit and old beer

starting thursday morning trash can man is back on track
he'll never meet the ten dollar man that gave it all back