Our boss excitedly had schemed
to get his business back on track,
but poor and homeless will be creamed.
If I complain, is it the sack?
That night a tramp came up to me,
unkempt, rough clothes and eight days’ stubble,
gave me a whistle : “Blow it free,
don’t be afraid!” I thought, “here’s trouble!”
Although afraid young Samuel blew
a whistle on his boss, Eli.
That tramp! Did he call Samuel too?
Can I be sure? On him rely?
Back of my clothing drawer the whistle’s laid.
To tell the honest truth, I am afraid.
Peter Dixon