| Beneath shabby clothes and bearded face was a proud man called 'Fox in a bush'
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| He would never accept charity from anyone, but everyday you’d see him scraps of
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| food from the wide array of trashcans that lined the street
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| Then hurrying off like a fox with its prey, he’d return to a cold and musty
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| shack where he’d lay his bed
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| One winter morning when on his daily tour, he fell to his knees in the winter
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| street and before the old man met his demise
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| He thought to himself
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| Is it me behind this old and dusty face?
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| Was I born to lie here dying in disgrace?
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| There was so much in my life that’s worth remembering
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| As the tears I shed, lie freezing on my cheek
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| People passing on the street
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| Don’t hide their shame for me
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| I would beg for the lend of a hand
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| If I only could speak
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| Please god don’t turn away, I’m so afraid
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| A shaggy cloaked vagabond, your own castaway
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| When I’m gone, there’ll be no-one
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| To weep or mourn for me
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| Now it’s time, for this old man
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| To close his eyes |