Sitting on the curb by the park bench
Barefoot listen to the buzz growl
Motors on the tires on the asphalt on the feet
What a sandwich, what a sandwich
Now God don’t exist but oh! this sandwich
Slave to the toil for the belly, the hunger
Wish I was slave for the love of another
We born let to die and then, my brother
The poet look cockeyed at whistling trees
He call me a trickster, I ask “Who art thee?
Are you of this world or are you born free?
This concrete jungle, what’s in it for me?”
That sandwich was tasty I wish I had pie
If that’s all there is then it’s all been a lie
Scatterbrain scatterbrain eat, poop, die