Charlie Freak had but one thing to call his own:

Three weight ounce pure golden ring, no precious stone.

Five nights without a bite, no place to lay his head.

And if nobody takes him in he'll soon be dead.



On the street he spied my face, I heard him hail;

In our plot of frozen space he told his tale.

Poor man, he showed his hand, so righteous was his need.

And me so wise, I bought his prize for chicken feed.



New found cash soon begs to smash a state of mind;

Close inspection fast revealed his favourite kind.

Poor kid, he overdid, embraced the spreading haze.

And while he sighed his body died in fifteen ways.



When I heard I grabbed a cab to where he lay;

'Round his arm the plastic tag read D.O.A.

Yes, Jack, I gave it back, the ring I could not own.

Now come, my friend, I'll take your hand and lead you home.



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