There was a man,

a mystery,

and a gloating democracy.

Cared they not

for his spirit one jot.

Grasped they not the twisting gnawing

on his frame, that lot. They moved around

like a trolley on the ground,

and were never glad

for that poor lad.

(And poor really was he)

and underneath their mediocraty

stood he,

still free...

But they could not see

the 'wizened' he.

And when the door creaked shut, nobody,not even he,saw it close, with his shoulder froze

no time to sleep or doze,

and no new clothes.

He never wished for money

'Crap' his father said,

as he sat on his bed alone,

with no one to phone

except the blind piano man,

and that can't be planned, yet already tried,

a time not be:

another mystery. His mother was astute

about his uncut ways,

but when you lose the nails

who pays? anyways.

A shot in the distance

or a rubber mat slapped

on the path

by Mr Mcgrath?

I wrote it for a laugh!

but how far has it me got

not a jot.

But someones coughing

by the radio.

They listened to the show,

what do they know?

is there a wind,

or,will it snow,

oh,I don't know.

They think I do,

but I know

I'd better not have a clue

bye,bye apple pie....