Humanity… a poem

 
 Little old Fiddlebrock Simpsonstien
 Wondered the streets alone
 He was a simple and quiet old man
 His features like toppling stone
 No one could understand him
 When words did escape his lips
 While some would laugh and tilt their heads
 Others laid hands on hips
 With head hung low like the setting sun
 Fiddlebrock heads for home
 An appliance box with newspaper floor
 Keeps him warm from the fresh falling snow