the weak his own age
* * *
high stepping and snappy
he’s made viciously happy
by the weak his own age
slim, jaunty and rakish
he slither slides snakish
with youth in each move
his shoes are the greatest
clothes styled “the latest”
demand “jet set” rating
he’s so rich in pep vim
faces get hard set grim
in the weak his own age
he’s cock strut of the walks
his too loud tie talks
matching red white striped socks
he flips spec of soot
pirouettes on left foot
over left eye hat cocks
full enjoying the hate
the envious hate
in the weak his own age
a svelte gal strolls by
to slow hold his bold eye
he’s a curiosity
now he glides by and prances
to the eye stabbing glances
of the weak his own age
they vile curse in dismay
for the lay in the hay
they would have at all cost
hot pants and nervy
he quick follows tail – she
turns round with a “GET LOST”
says it clear voiced and sharp
sweet song of a harp
to the weak his own age
they expect that his pride
will cause him face hide
their mouths sneer mean twitch
deadly eyes, filled with sin,
sudden sparkle in grin
“damn the son-of-a-bitch”
there’s a strong feel of hope
she’s deflated the dope
in the weak his own age
does this cool our boy?
it don’t even annoy
his smile’s a rare sight
his thoughts make him glow
he fast steps a tap toe
preening vanity
“I’ll lay her tomorrow”
adding insult to sorrow
cuz they think that he might
and hot hates burn anew
white lips mucous splew
in the weak his own age
he just once struts too far
gets hit hard by a car
while sneered-at sit safe
so his dancing prance ends
his park haters turn friends
for bouquet pass the hat
and in that night’s bed
fear of death prayers are said
by the weak in cold rage
From San Francisco: In, Around and About that City p 284 © Ray H. de Berge Sr.
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