Bums line the seashore
An elegant, everwinding path
Pedestrians ride, run and
Skip past
They are lawn ornaments
Nothing more, nothing more
As they lay about, strun
Across greenery
and the breeze floats by
carrying the smoke
from the bum's bummed cigarette
And the sadness and sorrow
of the American Dream
As faded as a thousand years suns
They sit, baking on their claimed lawns
Where True Man dare not venture
No comments:
Post a Comment