Bottles and boxes and ten miles a day
He walks slowly making his rounds
Picking up bottles and boxes and papers
And anything else we'd throw down
He's hump-backed and wrinkled
But unlike Van Winkel
He doesn't sleep his life away
And he speaks so seldom
That some of us wonder
Just what the old man has to say
Some folks laugh at him
But he doesn't notice
He goes right on about his day
Picking up bottles and boxes and papers
And pieces of life thrown away
Too big and tattered
The clothes that he's gathered
From boxes thrown into the street
He hides from the rain
Under store building ownings
And stays in a shade in the heat
Sisters and mothers
And daddys and brothers
He has none as far as I know
Just bottles and boxes
They're his little Fort Knoxes
But to us they're just something to throw
Some folks laugh at him
But he doesn't notice
He goes right on about his day
Leaving with bottles and boxes and papers
And pieces of life thrown away
Bottles and boxes and ten miles a day
He walks slowly making his rounds
Picking up bottles and boxes and papers
And anything else we'd throw down