Part 20 of 60 - The coaches from Glasgow


Walking around Victoria, you’d always meet a Scot,
Who’d been in London for a few days, and the rucksack that he’d got,
Was so big and heavy, but his health did seem alright,
He’d be happy and be chatty, it seemed that he was bright.

We’d hang out a day or two, share our knowledge of the street.
He’d teach me how to steal stuff I’d show him where to eat.
Then after a day or two, we’d go on our way.
But so very often, I’d see them another day.

Perhaps it was a few weeks, a month or maybe two,
I’d see them sat down begging, and I’d say “Hi, how are you?”
But they seemed a different person, and they had no time to speak,
A bag of bones and lost his spark, it seemed that he’d gone weak.

And that is what I think had taught me, that heroin weren’t good,
It sucks your soul right down a hole, not feeling like you should.
I’d tried to say hello again, but they wanted rid of me,
To beg the money to go and score, so often I would see.

And then I wouldn’t really see them, I weren’t sure where they’d go.
Some move around or change their lives, or maybe back to Glasgow.
But I just hope that in time, that some went back to who was here,
Before being a slave and wasting life, just for the crack and gear.

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