Who weeps because of the winter, laughs because of the sun
I thought of a limpid brooklet that bickers through weeds all day,
And I made a streak for the ferry, and rode across in a dray,
And dodged into the Erie where they bunt the box cars round.
I peeled my eye for detectives, and boarded an outward bound.
For you know when a man’s been cabined in walls for part of a year,
He longs for a place to stretch in, he hankers for country cheer.[60]
POEMS OF PROTEST
In spite of its transient charms, the life of the tramp is a hard one. It is fine to be free, but it is good to have a home. The hobo likes freedom, but is not satisfied to be an Ishmaelite. His speeches and his poetry are filled with protests against the social order which refuses to make a place for him; against the system that makes him an outcast.
The following poem entitled “The Dishwasher” was written by Jim Seymour, the “Hobo poet.” The second half, omitted here, is a prophecy of the overthrow of the “system.”