Man in wheelchair Guiding them
Is he really a person?
That one, no that one,
His arid, blubbering mouth
Lips shuffling across his face
He must be daft, she says, and flounces off down Poverty Lane,
With a capital "b" for "bitch" sand-blown into her eyes
She saw his skin, his lying flesh
Just long enough to cut a smooth incision
His already damaged soul broken again
She did not see his youth
Lost it to the nuclear mushroom cloud of warfare, that's what 'e did
Didn't see it coming now, didja, missy?
Didn't see it screaming at your lost soul
Least he has 'is- what have you gone and done with yours?
His mouth she saw, but never read
Dancing and swimming his face around to hide
Burning saltwater she has turned her back to,
But it's better his way
She doesn't have a soul; why should she deserve to cry?
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