The street is silent. You like walking there.
It seems unlived in, though, you ascertain.
‘No bread today’ a note says. You could swear
You’re in the eye of some great hurricane.
You whistle all the Marseillaise much louder.
Catch cholera. Catch galloping consumption.
Level with Top-Class Launderer ‘Van Buiten’
You glimpse a shuffling tramp all of a sudden.
‘The end is nigh,’ he cries. His babbles worsen.
He sputters plegm. He really is a baddun.
You well know who it is. It’s you in person.
Though you pretend you don’t know him from Adam.