No Mustard

No Mustard

Just a note to tell you I enjoyed talking to you today.
Wish I was one of your students, sitting at the master's feet.
I could give a speech, or two, I imagine.
Probably wouldn't be in the correct format, though.
We don't see too many formats
pushin' our shopping carts
on the streets
sleepin' on the grates in the winter
rubbin' our hands on rough whiskers
to make sure the hands
and the whiskers are still there.

I was sayin' to my friend Molly yesterday,
(Molly's got the bench downtown at seventh and race)
that times must be gettin' harder.
Not nearly so many newspapers
flyin' around the street
t' put in our shoes.
No good garbage at the rear of the restaurants
all them waiters and waitresses takin' it home
as if they didn't make plenty of money
with them big tips
probly most of 'em able to live high on the hog
in Norwood
or Evanston,
or Madisonville.

Yesterday Freddy was cryin' cuz he almost remembered somethin'
then lost it.
But when he almost had it
it was a warm thought
fuzzy warm
like the footed jammies he wore as a chile
but when he thought it
it made him wander our into the street
and the screechin brakes of some bastard's BMW
tore it right out of his mind.

He's sittin' on a stoop now outside the soup kitchen
toothin'on a heel of rye bread
with no mustard.

Guess I'll just take a walk over t' Court street now
nothin' better t' do than stare in some windas
watchin' people eat
in places where there's always plenty
of mustard