He's that man in the Black suit,
a flute ululating melancholy blue,
shades deep brown to the sound of Chicago rain,
pejorative of passing faces staining the CTA panes,
a true filth, like a precocious newt,
His siren song's are long accolades to beastly men,
causes quails, quivers, and low wails,
that feverish night blanket is his cape,
draped over sweating sorrow sobriquet sails,
onerous travesties welcome him in,
That beguiling jocular smile scythes deeper than words,
his augur sounds undulates as we speak,
creaking steps and breathes lingers on exposed necks,
feeding on our torpor sadness with joy,
we're merely his weightless toy birds,
don't let him in that thief,
he's only a figment of a crying heart,
don't let him in that bum,
he's only cawing cause of his own failed start.
