I bought four doormats on a spree,
(I owned no home you know,)
And laid one by this comfy tree ,
And climbed on to the lowest leaves,
For some sleepy reverie;
It felt so good I dreamed at peace,
And schemed unselfish dreams:
Where the city's homeless roam-
Find three forgiving doors-
(No bourgeois outraged screams)-
With porches to keep the rain at bay;
Irony is, "the worst of times",
Has freed more guys like me;
Three doors like wooden headstones,
For my hardcase homeless team,
Now as doormat-rich as me.
Another door was boarded up,
And I laid my rope mat there,
We live against our locked-tight doors,
Till the Good Lord opens all.