Balding head, across the boulevard, catching drops of rain,
falling hard,
cars and trucks travelling fast, weather warning was plain,
for all to see,
watching the drops bounce off, where they land, the strain,
in him is obvious,

his coat sheds water like a duck, the burden he carries tight
to his chest,
he stops and moves and stops again, points prepares to fight,
shadows in the downpour,
he talks, then shouts maybe he likes the sound of his mighty
voice, all alone,

he stops and confronts a telephone pole, others pass by, not staring,
to get his ire,
what he held to his chest, was dear to him and had to stay dry, carrying
his shoes, high
so his shuffle was in soaked sock feet, he had his mannerisms, wearing
plainly for all to see, he only had socks on his feet
between him and the rain swept
                                                         ground and street.

He may have needed more, he was tweaking, maybe he needed less,
was it **** or worse, he was still walking and still cursing, confess
to the gods, he would make it through the day,
against the odds.

Doin' the Boulevard Shuffle,
it isn't hard, until you have to live it.