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When you see him sprawled in the gutter,
his fly open, his mouth dripping with vomit,
his eyes bloodshot with booze,
spit into his face and pass on.
Your sputum is a golden gossamer
hanging on his eyelashes, festooned
with visions of a fat spider
sitting in a Persian carpeted room
counting piles and piles of money.
The spider tosses a coin to the fallen man.
He picks it up and crawls on his knees
red and raw with hot urine.
He tells beads
on his broken toes as a holy rosary.
'O! money-god
floating in your celestial cobweb
blessed be thy tossed coins
for opening a beerhall barrel
to quench my sizzling thirst. Amen.'
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