Michael Woodhead


Written & Composed by Michael Woodhead
Copyright © 1967, 2020

His clothes are ragged, musty, and torn
He builds a fire to keep him warm
Beneath his feet in the cloudy dust
His food is only a piece of crust
For, he's the vagabond

Each day, he begs for only a dime
He may drink coffee, but to him, it's wine
He can't afford to buy a cake
But, what you'll give, he'll gladly take
For, he's a vagabond

He wanders around with no abode
His feet tread heavy on the dusty road
And, all the time, he is so poor
Yet of all Life, he is so sure
For, he's the vagabond