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Located in dark corners of this street,
detested among country club's elite.
Shelter for city's poorest clientele,
that vacation in my cardboard motel.
When city lights fade and darkness falls,
they seek refuge in manilla walls.
Vagabonds enter my flimsy door,
and tears saturate my paper floor.
Let me introduce some of my friends,
that lived here during winter winds.
Men released from mental institutes,
winos, bag ladies, and prostitutes.
New York broker, his children, and wife,
who had once lived an elegant life.
Thirty years of labor spent in vain,
when his company went down the drain.
There's a special one I can't forget;
cutest child this box had ever met.
She appeared in black and blue array,
on a blizzard-like November day.
No neon sign flashes on this box,
to welcome a lost stranger who knocks,
but no one is ever turned away,
because they cannot afford to pay.
Go ahead and sneer if you want too.
Someday this Old Box may shelter you!
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