About a mile from Harley's Ridge sits a dilapidated bridge.
Beneath the bridge, between some rocks, there sits a tattered, cardboard box.
Inside the box abides a man, a broken-down old veteran.

      Holey.

People treat him like he's dumb, and call him names like 'tramp' and 'bum'.
No one wants to be caught near him; (Parents tell their kids to fear him).
Observers see the rags and dust and look down on him with disgust.

      Wholly.

At night, inside his box he lays; he reads his bible, and he prays.
His worries cease, his spirit calms; he reads from Proverbs and from Psalms.
He wraps himself in God's warm love and angels smile down from above.

      Holy.