It's a bird, no an unidentified turd,
A defecating flying hole.
Why in lands of plenty it blinks light,
Here a winking asshole?
Why the city of joy it chose,
And why a mendicant it finds.
Does this city look like a loo?
Do I a fecal plate remind?
Holy this land doesn't it understand?
How come it's not a pious soul?
Now what can I do to get rid,
Of this hovering puckered hole?
If shit it must maybe distrust,
A distraught object lost.
I have only these clothes,
Removing shit stain dearly cost.
A low hum it thinks I am scum,
By the list sent by mistake.
I may be poor but plenty raconteur,
From this maybe a ruse I rake.
My corner under the dark bridge,
This the boondocks of the city.
I wonder if it's because I look ugly,
It shits to make one pretty.
Covered with alien poop, a scoop,
Maybe I become a famous face.
Then alright my dearest friend,
I welcome your choice of surface.
