Poor Mister Shabbycoat, who has a filthy applebag
Sewed into his catgut chest, smells so bad
They kicked him out of the city dump, yelling he’s obscene.
He had a face once, before it eroded far away
Leaving behind naked treestumps and bleached out holes.
His shoes were made for cobbled streets
But gum their aged way upon cement
And sob when the man forgets to walk around a puddle.
I saw him once as he stepped into the street,
Where colored blurs devour hunks of right of way,
All purring greed and defecating smoke.
The red-eyed one glared at him
But he weaved across and didn’t notice.
Sleepy feet fall upon their brakes
At jarring speed
Halt the river with a cacophony of squeals.
Mister Shabbycoat conducts a symphony
Of curses, jerking starts and the blare
Of horny screams.
And then he is across, the river flows;
He laughs and tells a joke to his hated enemy,
Himself.
He feels important – see – THEY stopped for HIM…
But that’s a lie.
They didn’t stop for any age-squashed drunk,
They do not care.
They stopped because bumpers are expensive to repair.