Pseudo legends in
their own minds,
kings of their hills,
walks of all kinds:
doctor, lawyer,
or Indian chief,
admiral, general,
or corporate thief.
They drive taxis,
wait tables, tend bar.
Has-beens, burnouts,
all came from afar.
Please ask, they’ll tell.
Do lend them an ear.
It’s sure to impress,
may bring a tear.
Most often there’s a
woman to blame,
did them dirty,
brought them to shame.
Blissfully married until
one fateful day,
she found Jesus, or
found out he’s gay.
Once filthy rich,
now broke as a joke,
they hustle beer, or
occasional smoke.
The end of the line
for these old boys,
busking on the
Isle of Misfit Toys.