The spirit of Christmas passes him by
As he sits there maudlin with self-pity
Crying street-side into his paper decanter
Wholly oblivious to the buzz of the city
No family or loved ones to give respite
Given up long ago for the thirst for wine
No fireside hearth for this poor sinner
Just days and nights of incessant time
As Belfast glitters below Cave Hill
The tormented soul scuffles and shivers
Under grey beaded hills and flurries of rain
Embarrassed glances from guilty givers
Rambling, regretting, no-one listening
Eyes mottled with sorrow and cut-price liquor
Shabby coated in his cardboard abode
No festive cheer for this heartbroken drinker
Black-headed gulls squabble overhead
This shapeless spectre lost in a wilderness
Yellowy lights dripping and Christmas carols
Shield the fortunate from a figure so piteous
Perhaps some day he'll find his salvation
As light glides over the tide at Belfast Lough
Through mists at morning his soul will rise
Out of the depth of darkness to belle époque!
