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In Winter, from the parks the derelicts go
Into the hostels serving heated slops;
Avoiding there, the Winter's icy blow
Behind the homes and pretty little shops.
Few make it purpose to witness their demise,
As the Sallies and the volunteers may do.
Most folk do mock, expression of surprise
And don't believe your story, though it's true
They reek of grog and some are pale and thin,
But look much bigger in their multi clothes
Some have bristle growing from their chin
But know one cares how much hair he grows
The 'House of Bricks' they called their Winter place
Where they do hide and die in ill disgrace
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