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South by Southwest
Poems
Aug 18
Bill Baley
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
Written by
South by Southwest
Trussville , Alabama
(Trussville , Alabama)
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