Woeful wanderers seldom see.
Things in this world that are sorrow free.

Their hearts have been hardened by sinful sights,
Never again feeling love's delights...

In oaken chair he told the troubled tale,
Scarred voice creeping from shadowy veil.

As patrons listened to taxed traveler talk,
Warm blue tears drowned them in shock.

Without warning, the old man stopped,
Only to see that dull blue dropped.

Quickly he carries himself, from chair to door,
His high-hard boots clanging 'gainst wood floor.

And it was there that he stood, shedding a tear as well,
Taking not but a moment to bid them all farewell.

I gazed to the door as he stepped into the rain.
Indeed it was true, this man had seen great pain.

So I sat in my chair, and I did brood,
Coming to this thought, with which I conclude:

"Woeful wanderers seldom see,
Things in this world that are sorrow free..."