Bill Baley bought the bank down on Boulder street
He rode the bus to work
years for every week

He always sat his
orbed *** down
upon the same old seat
The one you know with a view that was always so oblique

He liked the way the wind would swirl and
blow the trash around
It was a poor man's cheap ballet
but without the sound

If threatened . . .  with change . . . then he'd begin to fret
Just considering the consequences always made him sick

(Sometimes he'd get so riled he'd became a ****)


No one robs a bank these days
nor steals a railroad train
They'd illegally transfer digital money
and that's how they've named the game

If you stroke or tap the key
you'll become a millionaire
Join the frequent flyers club and go mostly anywhere  

Well Bill's bank on Blouder street
had all of its money drained
They took out everything
turning his blood icy in the vein

Bill then lost his everything . . .
His bank his house his cat
Even had to give up the blue Siberian Yak

He became a homeless man
and drifted with the wind
He never knew tomorrow or the troubles it would send

Someone stole the shoes
he wore
while he was drunken sleep
and he became another refugee begging on the street

As far as survival skills
he was worse than even lame
Most people avoided looking
thinking he was all to blame

Poor Bill Baley froze to death
On one of those freaking polar nìghts
The frigid northwest winds made sure he was frozen white

They took his remains
down
to the mortuary
The city had contracted them to dispose of indigents
with their crematory

He was torched by flames
that rose above the city
Now at this point and time I say purely it's a pity

For after all crime does pay  
yet it kills , ruins lives
and slanders
And we are the goose looking on stretching necks to gander


Now-a-days no one sits
on the bus
that Bill would use to take
The bus route run there was decided that they'd eliminate


Now nothing but black faces blankly stare when you're staring back
Those are the people who were born with no claim to either side of track

And as for Bill no one remembers now except those who lived aback
And not too many live that long
When you're tied down to the track

There is no moral to this story
No bands or whistles or
parades of glory

For what little we have will be taken away
. . .
when they open up the gateway

A faint feeling of deja vu
A feeling, that I've been here before
But did something different
Something better than what I managed

I reel in the waves of my own mind
Crashing in on themselves
A never-ending circular sea
Hurdling through the depths of space

After minutes spanning hours
I come back to myself
Or at least the one present here
Observing with a skewed awareness

A last rolling wave washed over me
Something calming and refreshing
With just the right amount of power
To firmly hold me yet not threaten me

And it was just that, I thought
I was only observing life
Present, yet a mere passerby
Even in my own actions

I was watching someone else's life unfold
From the first-person view
And lately I didn't like
The direction they were taking

For a moment I felt the warmth of the sun
If only briefly in my mind
As if for the very first time I noticed
The boundless vitality it possessed  

And indeed, I did possess it too

There’s a hole at my feet
that I know I must fill
and as long as it’s there
I cannot be still
Don’t know where it comes from
or how it appears
But it may be how
I cope with my fears
I work to cover
an unpaid bill
that was handed to me
against my will
But, for the most part
I think I’ll survive
As long as I don’t bury
myself alive