About real things
To have a feeling that
I’ve changed the world.
But, what do I have to offer
That nobody’s said a million times?
I never studied much philosophy
Or slept the streets of Harlem.
The people that don’t write it seems
Should be working out these stanzas.
But they’re collecting cans
And starving for a buck.
I can’t speak for them
No more than they can speak for me.
This poem will pass them by
As the millions on their way to work
Who swat the poor much like a fly
That’s crawled to settle on their nose.
Ah, the smell of garbage in the air…
Politicians call it progress.I need rum. Rummy, rummy, rum.