Once I met a man
Who was old and wrinkled,
But those bright blue eyes
Still held a twinkle
He would never tell me
What he did for a living
But I remember one thing
He was always giving
Perhaps he was
An angel in disguise
But he knew what to do
When the kids would arrive
They would stop by
And ask for money
He would hand them some coins
That would send them off running.
That old canvas bag
Never seemed to run dry
No matter how many kids
Would try and re-try.
After a few hours
He would leave his post
And return the next day
To again act as host.
I watched this happen
Week in and week out
But he disappeared one day
Now all they do is pout.
Written by Leonard Schrick, 97
Who was old and wrinkled,
But those bright blue eyes
Still held a twinkle
He would never tell me
What he did for a living
But I remember one thing
He was always giving
Perhaps he was
An angel in disguise
But he knew what to do
When the kids would arrive
They would stop by
And ask for money
He would hand them some coins
That would send them off running.
That old canvas bag
Never seemed to run dry
No matter how many kids
Would try and re-try.
After a few hours
He would leave his post
And return the next day
To again act as host.
I watched this happen
Week in and week out
But he disappeared one day
Now all they do is pout.
Written by Leonard Schrick, 97
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