In spite of its transient charms, the life of the tramp is a hard one. It is fine to be free, but it is good to have a home. The hobo likes freedom, but is not satisfied to be an Ishmaelite. His speeches and his poetry are filled with protests against the social order which refuses to make a place for him; against the system that makes him an outcast. The following poem entitled “The Dishwasher” was written by Jim Seymour, the “Hobo poet.” The second half, omitted here, is a prophecy of the overthrow of the “system.” Alone in the kitchen, in grease laden steam, I pause for a moment--a moment to dream: For even a dishwasher thinks of a day, Wherein there’ll be leisure for rest and for play. And now that I pause, o’er the transom there floats, A strain of the Traumerei’s soul stirring notes. Engulfed in a blending of sorrow and glee, I wonder that music can reach even me. But now I am thinking; my brain has been stirred. The voice of a master, the lowly has heard. The heart breaking sobs of the sad violin, Arouse the thoughts of the sweet might have been. Had men been born equal, the use of their brain, Would shield them from poverty: free them from pain, Nor would I have sunk into the black social mire, Because of poor judgment in choosing a sire. But now I am only a slave of the mill, That plies and remodels me just as it will; That makes me a dullard in brain burning heat; That looks at rich viands not daring to eat; That works with his red, blistered hands ever stuck, Down deep in the foul indescribable muck; Where dishes are plunged seventeen at a time; And washed in a tubful of sickening slime. But on with your clatter; no more must I shirk. The world is to me but a nightmare of work. For me not the music, the laughter and song; For no toiler is welcome amid the gay throng. For me not the smiles of the ladies who dine; Nor the sweet, clinging kisses, begotten of wine. For me but the venting of low, sweated groans, That twelve hours a night have instilled in my bones. Arturo Giovannitti won his reputation as a poet by a poem in blank verse which pictures the monotony of prison life. “The Walker” was written in jail, as was “The Bum,” the poem by which Giovannitti is best known among the hobos. As an I.W.W. and a radical, his writings breathe the spirit of protest. “The Bum,” the first three verses of which follow, is an eloquent tirade against religion: The dust of a thousand roads, the grease And grime of slums, were on his face; The fangs of hunger and disease Upon his throat had left their trace; The smell of death was in his breath, But in his eye no resting place.