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by Willie Warren
Homeless, exiled, out in the street,
Nowhere to go for cover;
No income to function for survival,
And no one to have for a lover.
Wondering where is help for down trodden,
While survival needs are real strong;
Not knowing where your next meal exists,
"Til a stranger lets you tag along.
He teaches you about San Francisco,
And how the survival system works;
Introduces the G.A. and Disability game,
With all of it's cliques and jerks.
He tells you of a place to hangout,
To keep yourself clean and well;
He walks you through the door of,
McMillan's, 39 Fell
So onward you follow stiff regulations,
Keeping all your appointments on deck;
You sail the winds of need and effort,
'Cause your cash flow wants that check.
Your body is craving a place to rest,
Your sanity is looking for residence;
Your reputation tries obtaining payroll,
With the wallet seeking dead presidents.
Grabbing newspapers and Free Shelter Charts,
You're searching for a way off the street;
Asphalt Jungles can be intimidating,
When fatigued energy rules your feet.
Job Markets, sometimes, really do suck,
With salary offers not so swell;
It leaves you returning nightly to,
McMillan's, 39 Fell.
Each and every time you arrive,
Your tired, and patience is thin;
You can get either a 6 hour chair,
Or a shower when you sign in.
Once inside you see a different life,
Almost like a hidden civilization;
Seing the war wounds and all the scars,
Of former soldiers of our nation.
Binges, addictions, and other depressions,
With sickness have taken it's toll;
Caused by alienation and rejection,
Makes victims of all elements and cold.
All are wanting one lucky break,
To sail their ship away from hell;
'Till they're lucky they'll remain at,
McMillan's, 39 Fell.
Willie Warren
C.O.H. Volunteer
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