A Silly Ode to Our Silly Town Bum
Keep your eyes down, Dear, don’t be rude.
And I’ll tell you about that pathetic old dude.
What you’re looking at and seeing
is on account of these days being
the last days of an old drunken whore.
Propped up against the frames of old doors.
Smirking with choppers that aren’t there no more.
Lost in a fog of the days where he scored
young tender honeys and suckers galore.
Laughing and sputtering through cackling snorts,
elbowing the ribs of his drunken cohorts.
Boasting how easy the dumb chicks were gotten
in traps he once laid in which they were all caught in.
Promising silk, when he gave them soiled cotton
And promising juice, from old fruit that was rotten.
Though it’s been many years since the very last time
he was dressed to impress anyone in his prime.
He still stumbles out late to go hunt every night,
mistaking wide eyes and the smiles for delight.
When the young girls are struggling to keep down the chuckles
o’er him snapping his fingers, yet still dragging his knuckles.
When he looks in the mirror to slick up his hair
and imagines he still sees a Don Juan in there.
With the arrogant confidence turned up full blast
and he steps out the door to relive an old past.
Where the sound is, each night before he departs,
not the squeak of new shoes but the whine of sad farts.
I admit he was something back in the old days
when he clean got away with all sorts of old plays.
Due to a charm that no girl could resist
and a whole heap of tricks that kept other guys pissed.
From the thick wavy hair and the glint in his eyes
to the expensive gifts which hid gruesome sick lies.
It was all nicely packaged, this well-groomed disguise,
now it’s all worn and faded, which is no big surprise.
From the knee knocking gut to the thin chicken thighs.
Long gone are attentions once easily piqued.
The sensual purr of his voice, now a squeak.
Where the blush he now leaves on a young lover’s cheek
is not dealt by a kiss but the punch from a freak.
With a cocky stretched grin still affixed to his face
below eyes which confirm he’s still king of the place.
Calling each man “dumb ape!” and each woman “fat wench!!”
but can’t see the passers-by gag from his stench.
Though he wasn’t invited, like ages before,
he’s propped up there still ‘cause he won’t leave the door.
Remember, eyes down and keep walking, Dear Son.
For the next time he falls, we’ll be rid of the bum.