Who needs a perfect life?

My cluttered teak table holds more literary secrets than your splendid ones.

My moon blabbers everything to blemished eyes than you to your impeccable sun.

Men lie asleep on park benches,
and Ice-cream vendors wait patiently for customers,
and I see a tap with a dried throat.

Meanwhile a pinky girl arrives.
Joggles her dad,
daubs Ice-cream all over herself,
opens the tap to oblivion,
and gets drenched.