Down street march on legs struck lame is beauty in it's heart; the silence of a drunken waltz brings terror to the mind. The wandering fellow laughs at the young and the foolish, those to whom sorrow is still unknown. He laughs at the young and industrious, the children of a happy love, the affairs of men and women.
The drunkard was born of two thousand hairs; a dreaded ball in the belly of a virgin. He cannot know love but the love of a hungry woman; he cannot know love but of a whistful year, lost to the terrors of whiskey and smoke. The drunkard cannot know a heart other than darkness, drunk of the teat of dishonor and wonderlust.
He marches unashamed.
Do you hear the demons, can you see the pythons?
Do you hear the thousand angels screaming?
The liquor store is an unearthly trouble; a home for the dead ones and the wasted spirits.
He cannot see, he cannot hear. He cannot taste but the burn of satisfaction which troubles his soul with a wicked waterlogged hatred.
The drunkard march on down street falls, the drunkard is doomed to die.
Let the drunkard love himself; let him find joy in the troubles of this world; let him love the hollowed flowers and the punch drunk moon; let him whisper away his years to the whistle of the livid express trains that bellow their anger like a thief in his judgement.
Let the drunkard be wicked, for wickedness can be the greatest kindness in the hands of a child. Let him be foolish, let him know joys and woes, happiness and song.
On his march on down street he assualts the air with a cry for forgiveness but the stillness of midnight is his only answer.
Let him be hurt and let him know freedom lest judgement fall upon your soul like a parade of seasick ghosts.