Big hand on seven, Little hands frozen, Black puddles flow, A vagrant laughs then collapses, Here I stand waiting for her, By her allocated lamp post, Watched by a white man talking like a black man, Flicking old presidents. My hair stands up like a marine, Ashamed of the color temptations become, The traffic lights turn green, Harlots cling on to the stationary buicks, Here in the last saloon of lowlives, I see my face blurred in shimmering puddles, My wife at home cooking me Steak, As I just wait for for my pound of flesh, I feel no remorse, I am a still membrane. Desire is my enemy of conscience.