EIGHTY-year-old Jim Stubley, of East Street, Rippingale, says: “I wrote this poem about tramps a few days before reading David Gray’s letter in the Lincolnshire Free Press of May 1 (Police didn’t respond to disgusting sight of homeless man in doorway).
In summer I went bowling
On nearly every Saturday.
Just get my bowling shoes on,
Then I’d be on my way.
But a hungry tramp came to our door,
As hungry as can be.
I gave him some bread and butter,
No time to make him tea.
Mother had a favourite little tramp,
When we lived in Middle Street,
One day mother cooked him dinner,
Just for a little treat.
One tramp slept in our chaff house,
He said I hope you do not mind.
Mother called her tramp little Robin,
To him she was so kind.
Little Robin had red cheeks and he used to say,
“I’ve been a farmers boy”.
When I gave my tramp some bread and butter his eyes lit up,
I bet the poor sod was hungry.