Poor Old Man: Compilation 09/07/2022

Beaming in his bolero the peasant wasn’t quick
He knew he shouldn’t dawdle, but man, the air was thick
Being a true pluviophile he really wished for rain
He couldn’t get the portrayal out, like phosphenes on his brain
Liking what he was thinking, a morsel of a plan
He slunk right past the bouncer like a filament in the sand
The pocket of his trousers was full of coins and junk
And also there was woolly fuzz, uncanny ’cause it stunk
But as he thought about it the more he decided no
and feeling strikhedonia was happier to go
His plan to take his money and use it on some drink
Was foiled by his odor and how bad he did stink
He’d never get inside the bar without being thrown out
Serving stinky poor men was not what they’re about
And so he went his way back to find an open space
to rest his hot and weary head and find his happy place.

©2022 CBialczak Poetry

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