The john got in and went to sleep;
The “con” highballed, and she whistled out,
They were off—down the Gila Monster Route.
The following ballad by Harry Kemp, the “tramp poet,” describes a situation that is familiar to those who know Hobohemia. Many men in the tramp class, to escape cold and hunger, have yielded to a similar temptation.
The Tramp Confession
We huddled in the mission
Fer it was cold outside
And listened to the preacher
Tell of the Crucified;
Without a sleety drizzle