The SlobHe
spent
his
days
freewheelin’, poppin’ pills, stayin’ inside for it was safe in there, much easier to hide. He saw a middle-aged woman wearin’ nude stockings. She caught his stare and she just smiled. The cool approach of the unhip makes it all worthwhile.
He stares at women’s chests. His back to the east, his eyes toward the west. His roommate calls him a slob but he knows what he’s doin’, for after all, the hypocrite should stay focused on his own prob-lemme see, my head is spinnin’, I feel so dizzy,
Too much isolation, not enough to eat, dreamsbout women walkin’ down the street. A homeless man comes up to me and tells me he’s hungry, can I help him out? So I say, I can barely feed myself, let alone close my mouth.
The sky is blue. My hair is gray. I am told I worry too much and that there is no reason to feel this way. I see a transvestite all dolled up in black and gold. Ain’t nobody’s business if he wishes to be a missus, like a Jane, Sally, Marg or Peg, but that man, who’s dressed up like a woman, ought to at least shave his legs.
A man in brown holds bags of white that are drooping like the floppy ears of an old hound dog. His eyes are singing, his mind is clear. The only thing that keeps him goin’ is the study of reflection inside his bathroom mirror.
