| He hums tonight through his streets,
|
| My unlatched window the tune repeats,
|
| The kerb-crawling car winds down to a stop.
|
| A few seconds mumble then whisks him off.
|
| Sick and tired of abuse,
|
| Controlled signs of hysteria,
|
| But like when dawn arrives,
|
| He remembers his leisure.
|
| He runs tonight through his block,
|
| A crack in the curtain is unlocked.
|
| No meeting with a mother or greeting a friend
|
| A sharp-looking boot-jack with some time to spend.
|
| Sick and tired of abuse,
|
| Controlled signs of hysteria,
|
| But like when dawn arrives,
|
| He remembers his leisure.
|
| He cries tonight
|
| Through his manner
|
| I can see his conscience
|
| Get the better
|
| From a door-way stepped in Shadowed leather
|
| Exchanging handshakes for money
|
| And pleasure.
|
| He crawls tonight through his scum,
|
| From my dirty window his body’s numb.
|
| Beneath the street-lamp tilts shoulders bent,
|
| Then meets his pick-up who pays his rent.
|
| Sick and tired of abuse,
|
| Controlled signs of hysteria,
|
| But like when dawn arrives,
|
| He remembers his leisure.
|
| His pleasure |