Mister Blister, there he goes!
His shoes, they open for his toes.
His jacket has no sleeves at all.
His trousers, well, they just might fall.
He is a coarse and hairy sight.
He limps and dares not stand upright.
He has a shopping cart to push.
His bathroom is the nearest bush.
People yell and call him names,
and talk about the way he shames,
the neighborhood, and those who "care"
about the world they say we share.
But, Mister Blister is my friend.
He always has some time to spend.
He cares about what I say,
and remembers this from day to day.
He knows about my cares and fears
and what I try to say he hears.
Perhaps the others are too old
to see without life's blindfold.
I wish that he could freely live
and that the town, he could forgive.
They just don't know you like I do.
Mister Blister, I'm glad I do.
A poem I wrote as a child for my neighborhood friend,
