he swore,and covered me in spittle,
'tis the truth I do declare!
he shouted with an angry glare,
and argued with a great compunction,
this poet with a desperate function,
inspired by a little hash.
self declared ruler of Lyon Gare Perrache.
His tirade,
reached me where I laid,
and just arrived,
vitamin deprived,
identity contrived to conceal,
a man of the road,
a king of the kerb,
no coins to weigh me down,
no deeds of dark renown,
uncrowned sovereign of destinies unknown,
are bound,
but not by chain or rope,
or deficit of hope
Feet point the way when I stand,
a corporeal compass.
I felt,
750 miles,
by the length of my belt,
by holes that determined
lost goals,
increments of distance,
not soporific resistance
Sat on the banks
of the Rhine
and the Rhone,
time passed and at last,
I slept,
but alone.
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