Ballade OF THE
Poor-Mouth Purse
Thomas Kevin O'Rourke
Copyright 2013 by TKO'Rourke All rights reserved thereto.
As I peddle derelict bike downtown, rusty chain a chirping gang of sparrows, I find a billfold laying on the ground. It’s nearly shrouded by the swirling snow when I roll up and hide it with my shoe. Check out the street to see who would stalk it, slip the scrip-case in my jacket pocket. So, I’m guilty. Life is a killing floor. I getaway on my squeaking sprocket since big business swindles earth from the poor.
Within the wallet’s puckered folds – twelve bucks. A street poet’s imbroglio no joke this stark and starveling winter. My good luck means cornbread in the oven, beans to soak, one last meal and hot tea before I croak. I thank Old Scratch and Snatch who provided greenback dollars from some soul divided for a poet’s sustenance one day more. What can I do? My fate is decided since big business swindles earth from the poor. ~
Two years, purse, since I found you in the snow. You’ve gone from fat to gaunt but here’s a tip: The rent is due; I’ve got three cents to show while you cough up coupons for discount chips. And that’s the sheriff banging at the door. Tell me wallet, I never could divine why I’m so oppressed. Is it such a crime that I sing? A mere ragged troubadour? Police and Judge determine I do time since big business swindles earth from the poor.
O empty billfold filled with devils! A wagonful as I fancy larceny. In youth I was ace with pick-and-shovel, now bully cops yell – Old age a felony; Compared to us you’re straight and free. Best cut that ditch we get paid to shoot you in. I’ll piss my pants, say yassah boss and grin while the law nails plywood on my door, evicts grandmothers, protect bankers’ sin since big business swindles earth from the poor.
This alley preacher’s reward is Heaven if I make the effort and act real nice calling a crap game and rolling sevens. I’ll skip out of Hell with my loaded dice, pop nits between nails and pick my head lice. Blast the nature of my daily scramble! Ask old Job if God made life a gamble. I bet – to the Devil – my very core, poetry, thus a poor rat I ramble since big business swindles earth from the poor.
envoy I’ll ride the freight trains, good riddance I’m gone, plague on big business, no pay for my song. I flat out refuse to work anymore, will rather lie down and die before long in the night-soiled straw, spent as Frank Villon, since big business swindles earth from the poor.