Andrew wears flannel wraps for shoes And his feet sloshes through the streets Whereupon the night rain is pouring down Neck bent the man is very far from foppish And his slender frame drifts down stream He travels athwart only down not sideways Past gutters steaming from the hot sewage Andrew knows roads to his place of refuse And he understands which rot dominates The pitch dark corners only he knows Intimately for his place of consolation Quiet coves unseen set in the tapping of Little streams of unknown content drizzling Andrew loves each of his rusty cans here Adoring how each of his garments are torn Andrew does not 'just' want anything at all He wants things and he wants them straight And really without little tales or songs He ties cotton string to an old broomstick Pretending to enjoy basically the same fish As those who buy them upside in the stores Andrew frankly does not give one blimey bit For the platonic wants of his fellow man He needs to be dogmatic and pragmatic He does not even try to sell you silly charms He goes to sleep at the end of his own days Sees the smell of stagnation to be comforting Andrew is a sincere chap who loves sun downs For it heralds the fact that he may go outside And hopefully it also rains so that he may enjoy Not 'just' to do anything but to get lost in it Because just as Andrew becomes verily invisible He also escapes out of these man made doors Andrew once upon a time was forced to adhere to But now he walks freely alongside pavement roads With his makeshift shoes wrapped around his feet Hoping and praying for the heavens to open up So that he could hear his feet slapping on the street Each step being a slosh sounding like nothing is 'just'
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