Work In Progress

Here's to the man who sat down on the soft leather To stall the rising winds And the bad whether or nots those were his pots With the lids boiling off Down in the streets and the squares The wretched mules milled But pricked up their ears When the first droplets spilled To the tile, all the while The man remained idle And the mules began marching They threw rocks at the glass Of the sheltered man's window Unheard by the ass Who sat there, in his chair A fat cat grown grayer