The old man is beating
the bass drum, again:
rumba-dump! bam!
rumba-dump! bam!
upstairs, so far upstairs
his giant farts are steaming up
the sky . . .
We hide in vain
we’re already in the rain,
and if pollen mixes in
with that old yellow pain
that passes from Old Drain:
it’s really pissing down . . .
Please, no huge hail
old guy; no huge hail:
we have enough
obscenity in the mail
with ads from everyone
including places selling
stuff I’d never buy.
I don’t know why they try.
We live down here
at the bottom
of the greed chain
still trying what passes
for passing water
while it rains
in mortal pain again.
[This was written under the influence of Leonard Cohen’s latest collection: Book of Longing]
