Prologue
They met in ways that broke them first,
Each life a thud, a hunger, thirst.
Not born to lead, nor raised to shine,
But time had worn them past their line.
What castaways might find anew—
You'll see, if you read all way through.

The Mule (Once a Builder)
He once laid brick with steady pride,
Now drags his boots from site to site.
His back's a map of breaks and bends,
He buried more than he defends.
He spoke in cracks, in weight, in wear—
They called him Mule. He didn’t care.

The Dog (Once a Cop)
His badge was burned, his service cut,
A whistle blew, the door slammed shut.
They said he barked at all the wrong,
But truth alone won him no song.
Now sleeping near convenience bins,
The Dog still fights, though no one wins.

The Cat (Once a Star)
She sang once, velvet in the smoke,
Till trends moved on and money broke.
Too sharp to beg, too proud to cry,
She claws through gigs that just scrape by.
She purrs when paid, but not for long—
The Cat still owns her right to song.

The Rooster (Once a Preacher)
He shouted fire when fire grew,
But silence paid the warmer pew.
The sermons dried, the donors fled,
His calls for justice left for dead.
Now chalks the truth on alley bricks—
The Rooster’s crow still sometimes sticks.

(Their Journey)
Four soles, not sought, just thrown together,
Not kin, not friends—just beaten weather.
A shack stood crooked in the trees,
They ducked inside with aching knees.
A gang of men had claimed it first,
With stolen booze and deeper thirst.

The Mule kicked open rotted wood,
The Dog bit back as best he could.
The Cat leapt high and hissed with flair,
The Rooster screamed, they dropped their share.
Those men ran blind into the night—
Four misfits laughed beneath the light.

Resolution
They fixed the roof, they swept the floor,
They made that house a kind of "more."
No crowds, no fans, no holy hymn—
Just place to rest when light grew dim.
What failed in them began to bloom—
Off-key, but still in tune.