Rasta man his song. Oh!

The rooster-spur necklace

with the chrome beads. Yes!

Jailbar hair

spitty voice

with backup provided by

accordion polkas

on the window ledge.

Rasta man two-steps the gritty concrete

totally buzzed,

Australasian wine.

​

​

​

​

Here now, city,

unclassifiable,

blind as the tapping of a human Jerusalem.

Cell phone amusement?

Take a shot; used to it.

Sing and laugh and whaddaya know,

rosy cornucopia-man?

Listen to the sempiternal snicker of the chewing gum;

Pass him by, Shy-Man? Strolling with directory?

Your whimsical actual coin--

raise to the lip,

drop to the cup.