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The Mutant
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Trader Horne
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1
He is a the faker that sits by the river
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Holding winged insects in front of his eyes
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Face of the aged but feared they would wither
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Living their lives, just fearing to die
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Cardboard and leather and synthetic fiber
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Don't cover his body or flutter his mind
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The earth is like Heaven and the water like cider
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He walks on the ground and he flies in the sky
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Monk in the glass house was breaking his fingers
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Doing his penance for someone to see
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The head in the alley was licking his papers
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And thinking, ?He's thinking he's better than me?
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He is but wisdom who looks on the youngster
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Thriving, surviving, contriving but free
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And if in his wanderings, he should pass your doorstep
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Strike up your matches, there's so much to see
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