Men of Streets

Chords of violin rusted and greasy
wood sounds hollow, lacking mass
bows bent, curved as crooked schmuck
strings broken, flying free

I swing streets asking for a penny, a cent
with tinges of my sour old voice
like chicken’s neck when the steel sears
I sing her lullaby, in corners and streets
towel laid, coins tossed on it

Men of fall are we, in every path and alley
in richest Europe to raggedest Africa
we hide under palm in rain
and seek shade and shelter near trees
when sun strikes hard in summer
we thread by evening
when the the steam seams

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