They talk a lot of *******.

They don’t clear the streets quick enough when it snows,
And get out of hand if you are not in it.

Short, fat, bald, and smoking a pipe,
Under a street lamp,

After-hours,
They lie.

I wear orange trousers and plastic,
Blue glasses,

And I think I have the answers to poor
******* collection.

The Indian before me has,
Wooden beads around his neck,

And thick toes
Sticking out from open leather sandals.

The other has greasy hair,
Dark skin,
And is very hairy,
In a turban.

They may have better ideas.

Devolve yourself,
From yourself,
To lead.

None of them are women.