that coupled his speech of drunken phonetics,
sat slumped in his corner on the most dismal of streets
and held out his cup to pedestrian feet.
A fortress constructed of blankets and trash
clashed
with the scent of elitists' cash
who were
diverging their faces
in their rush to no places
in most of their cases
with frowns as they passed.
The blind drunken sage clasped at his Spirit
at tenacious hostility
towards misfortuned appearance
and guzzled his way
to a sensation like fire
and wiped from his mouth the remnants of Whisky
as if
his inner most voice had began to perspire.
He started to shout:
"Hey, Good looking out!
Greedy like hell...
You think 'cause I'm blind, and I'm drunk and I smell
that I can't really tell
what you're looks are about?
I see that you see me,
You sad bunch of fucks...
and me and you, buddy...
we don't differ too much, TRUST!
I lived in a house
with a yard and a cat
and a pool and a wife
and the kids...
and all that!
My job laid me off
and they took it all back.
I'm the product of you
whose a product of them
and with things as they are
we're all just as good as condemned.
Material zombies,
with you're head in the clouds
who throw cash at their problems,
and their fears and their doubts.
Ingest all that judgment,
and humble your clout
and help a fellow... scared... piece of shit out."
And as quick as he stood
to preach to no good
he slunk back to crouching
and praying
for ears who heard
and understood.
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