The big boy on the welfare cart,
Takes up three quarters of a seat,
And the junkie chick hangs on for dear life,
She is nervous and somewhat wobbly.
She’s got track marks on her arms,
They tell all about her past,
Will she be here next year? I ask.
She’s suspicious and onto me,
Craning to see just what I’m scribbling,
The signal cord nearly rips off my head,
As she yanks on it with all her strength.
She is angry with energy,
Everclearly on her way uptown,
She is wearing a gawk and frown.
Her pencil thin legs clicking together,
Like a wind chime in a wind storm,
Is this of the norm?
There she goes out the back door my birdlike eye scans the welfare cart for a new source of inspiration, a point of interest until I reach my final destination.
Just who will be next?
For my character assassination attempt?
Just who will be next?
How about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the plunge. I said, how about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the plunge. Yeah, he’d make a good character study or his he busy studying about me?
Now I’m the one craning to see if he’s scribbling about me.
