| The big boy on the welfare cart
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| Takes up three quarters of a seat
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| And the junkie chick hangs on for dear life
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| She is nervous and somewhat wobbly
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| She’s got track marks on her arms
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| They tell all about her past
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| Will she be here next year? |
| I ask
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| She’s suspicious and onto me
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| Craning to see just what I’m scribbling
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| The signal cord nearly rips off my head
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| As she yanks on it with all her strength
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| She is angry with energy
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| Everclearly on her way uptown
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| She is wearing a gawk and frown
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| Her pencil thin legs clicking together
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| Like a wind chime in a wind storm
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| Is this of the norm?
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| There she goes out the back door my birdlike eye scans the welfare cart for a
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| new source of inspiration, a point of interest until I reach my final
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| destination
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| Just who will be next?
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| For my character assassination attempt?
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| Just who will be next?
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| How about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the plunge.
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| I said, how about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the
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| plunge. |
| Yeah, he’d make a good character study or his he busy studying about me?
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| Now I’m the one craning to see if he’s scribbling about me |