I came, and I went there.
I went there and came.
I furnished my money, my loving and fame.
I drank and I piddled, I piddled and sang,
a song for Bukowski, for Bukowski I sang.

The low-lifes and hustlers,
the ****** and the cops.
The ***** in the bottle,
the dives and the flops.

The racers and wasters,
living on luck.
For all of the chasers,
I now raise a cup.

A song for Bukowski, for Bukowski a song.
A song for Bukowski, Bukowski so long.

wept all over
the mahogany table. So, he cradled
them in his hands, till the color
ran down the length of

his arm. And his hand
was a prison for the wrinkled
crimson. Men before him spread
the soft, curled petals all over

their four cornered brass
bed. And they died without
water. They died without sun.
They died dried up. They'd been

picked too young. All that is left
is the appendage riddled with
thorns. She piddled her life on men
since the day she was born.