King Street Day Job
I have a day job on King Street
I sit on a sidewalk and weep
I lie on the asphalt and sleep
I spit on the subway grate
And slowly decompose
Picking apart a symphony
In tragic, symbolic telemetry
In elegant, wasted dysentery
Like a TB wretch with the King’s Evil
Coughing; and
It’s the scrofula talking
I have a day job on King Street
I sit on a sidewalk and weep
I lie on the asphalt and sleep
I spit on the subway grate
And slowly decompose
Picking apart a symphony
In tragic, symbolic telemetry
In elegant, wasted dysentery
Like a TB wretch with the King’s Evil
Coughing; and
It’s the scrofula talking
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