The street, good friend, is pocked and hard
In answer to your question.
My feet are black, my lungs are charred;
No boots to pour my flesh in.

Sometimes when I am bibulous
An easiness can feign.
Without that drunken impetus
The maggots roam my brain.

On dry days dust will bloom and choke.
The grit abrades my teeth.
The wet turns dirt to greasy yolk
And fouls my skin beneath.

With body sores that ooze and stink,
No comfort can be found.
My sanity is past the brink.
In pathos I am bound.

You see I'm hideously scarred
And make a sour impression.
The street, good friend, is pocked and hard
In answer to your question.
                                                rc