2/26/2009, 6:18 AM

Sounds of a Whistle

Escape is the shell of dreams while vultures rule the skies and sharks swim nigh near the bank, on the corner, in the parking lots and parks that litter and glitter the darks down on Payback Street. The bum thats sleeping there who drinks canned heat has dirty hair and breathes thin air was once a priest who saved me from despair; filling balloons of clowns with truths of life and flair Now he burps a ragged rhyme, asks me for a dime and wonders when his ship comes in and if it sails on time. (c) 12/2006 by Larry W Johnson/Larz Boah