The Rum Collection.
Vagabonds,
runaways
and strays.
They jumped from the box car one after another.
There was no race
but they ran at pace.
Towards salvation of a kind.
To see what they could find.
Scraps, slaps and naps.
It was all they required.
Wired and fired
Up towards the oncoming dawn.
They must think we are fools.
No garlanded jewels.
To show from whence they had came.
But the gang did not care.
They had style.
They had flair.
And a history of bad fame on their name.
thejrpc 