I had a low-paying sales job,
to pay Peter, Paul, I'd rob.
Sold grandad's watch and fob,
a dirty rotten shame.

Wife blamed me for it,
said when I drank I hit.
She took the kids and lit,
after that, I lost touch.

My sadness dragged me down,
at work, I'd wear a frown,
to cope, became a clown,
it was really, all too much.

You know that I'm a vet,
a Iraqi desert fox, and yet,
no respect do I ever get.
Killing skills don't pay.

Said their business was too slow,
would have to let me go.
Still hired new meat though,
didn't have to do me that way.

Applied to many places for work,
but my kill skill set was a quirk,
I volunteered like a jerk,
but they said that I wasn't fit.

Couldn't pay for my hotel room,
had to move my car every day by noon.
Had to give up that car way too soon.
The city just wasn't my friend.

So, I walk the streets every day,
asking for handouts for my pay.
Don't know if there's any other way.
And, I don't know when it will end.

I used to be a desert fox,
my home is a cardboard box.
Treated as though I have the pox.
And, I cry every night alone.

Christmas is coming soon I hear,
and with it the worst time of year.I must insulate my box I fear,
or I will die inside my home.

Forgotten, and all alone.