he sits alone in his cubicle atmosphere the claustrophobia inducing room he calls home upon the rumpled bedsheets lies his ass (and melancholic like ) his head rests contemplatively upon perspirating palms (peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers) unkempt hair stubbornly falls into face (the lice are so athletic in the filth) and scraggly beard is in custody of the hair haunted eyes gazing out of sockets bleakly pondering his most recent dilemma of murder his wrinkled and dirtied linen uncared for of course holy pants old and tattered beyond hope of mending (no pun intended) - yes he broods in a fashionable state of philosophy approaching each available arguement and rebuttal objectively (circular reasoning circular reasoning ) (look i m back at the very beginning!) and in a profound daze of absent mindedness his hands covering himself in a trench coat (the leather bound books tightly under arms) le chapeaux est sur son t te (and i can t speak french) his feet casually strolling him along the street here and there there and here through the dilipidated haymarket where merchants spout their shit (propaganda) pimp their whores (hooker prostitute working girl) sell their products for our fatass dirty dollar (oh america is oh america is oh america is ) (so grand ain t it ) (there goes our circular reasoning again ) - the economy is f ck d the homeless are u e the politicians are u e society is f ck d education is f ck d the workplace is u e a m e r i c a i s f u c k e d (fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck) (well fuck ) and so is is it of course yes of course it is (light a candle for the sinners ) (set the world on fire) - just as his feet carry him to the wrought iron gate his hands just as surely snap up (limply) from his sides pushing it aside slowly plodding his way towards the entrance and coincidentally up the decrepit stairs as people of different shapes and sizes shove past him tenants movers pimps and whores idiots and intellectuals (what a psychological zoo ) - his hand reaches nervously up up up muscles clenching bones grinding fingers closing around bell pull down down down and the sound distinctly is driven into the ears gong ring ring gong latch is drawn from hook locks unlocked (fearfully like an anxious rabbit ) and there before him stands a haggard old woman (pawnbroker oh yes she is she is wretched) she peers from between the crack in the door and the jam timidly and suspiciously oh what a hoarder the old bitch is greasy hair plastered to head in a style of uncleanliness high forehead wrinkled with age of meaninglessness mouth drawn into a mask of suspicion hatred greed and flimsy soiled dress covers the frail body (harsh biting like jack frost of january) fingers clutched weakly onto door you again what do you want she intones her voice decaying bereft of civility i ve another pledge for you he says timidly nervous nervous nervous nervous Eterna