A beggar knocked on my window
A tap was enough to grab my show
He was a little boy of four
I never saw him no more
He asked for support
He drowned in the Chesapeake
Now he is a drunkard
And he likes his whiskey with rye bread
Unlike the dead crowd in bar of wry attendants
His paltry cash deposits make for no riches
He lives life with crutches
Barely makes it a mile with no shoes on
But he knows how to run from the dour cops
Because he has always been in trouble
His name is trouble
He tap dances on streets in a disguise
To save the attention and scour for glory
From the remains of some dead poet