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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