The Weatherman’s Purpose
A heat wave is taking shape tonight.
Jokers and clowns sing dirges in the street.
A guy with a gimp hums taps to his dog.
Ballerinas are sporting jungle boots on their feet.
“Ballerinas with boots!?” yelled the guy with the gimp.
“There’s a science to poetry!” called a trash man.
He hopped off his truck and picked up the trash,
And then didn’t bother to put back the cans.
The paper boy is selling cocaine,
The hot dog vendor pushes dope,
And little boys with bloodshot eyes
Hold pocket knives at each other’s throats.
But it’s all good in the suburbs.
At least that’s what the mayor says.
But the virgin playboys in the city all know
That the mayors words are as a good as a guess.
Little black girls cool down in the shade.
A Chinaman finds tubes for an old radio.
He inches an ear toward the soft speaker.
Thunder and lightning are toe to toe.
The weatherman, of course, is wrong again,
With yet another false forecast.
The nomadic gypsies are mad as hell,
“He’s a bum!” they scream, “Fire his ass!”
The guy with the gimp quits humming taps.
“Leave the weatherman alone!” he shouts.
“Just because he’s not always right,
It gives us something to bitch about!”