On my way past the branch of my local PD
I discovered the dearth of soft zibelline
I ardently posed as if ambidextrous
In front of the window and I thought I looked fine
I did not believe in covering my tracks
Since I knew I had done nothing wrong.
Like a bird on a branch in a sea full of kelp
I just stood there singing my song
About recovering wool or whatever the kind
Of fabric that I liked to use
When suddenly out of the door a man shot
Who was drunk and still singing the blues
I offered him help so that he wouldn’t fall
On his way off the stoop down the stairs
And tried to make as if I hadn’t felt
The laughter and all of the tears.