Let it be

there were no numbers remaining on his front door step
and a surgeon friend removed all remaining trace
of granulated sugar and midnight lace
and afterwards when the lights went out he slept
he awoke crippled and weak
opened the stain glass window and took a peek
his intestines were rotten and stank
he literally fell into a bottomless tank
imagining himself a modern day poet
and that made him green with despair
i went to talk with him there
it was in London because of his English accent
and when he spoke i could tell he was happily broke
a little bit snobbish and very much a dandy
but all he asked for was a small piece of rock candy
from the local mom and pop variety store
he could have thought of so much more
like furniture, books, a precious piece of paper and a pen,
a little working girl who peddled her bottom at ten
or a carton of unfiltered smokes and a fine bourbon
no, he would have none of it
he was obviously sad and sick.