I have seen him often
Wandering up and down the dusky street
Totally drunken, dripping wino
Wasted like scattered cigarette-ash.
He shrieks and shouts, spits and spouts
A lot of hatred and suddenly hurls a stone
On pigeons preening and dancing
On my neighbour’s window ledge.
They fly away quietly to return again
At this he beams a triumphant smile
As he tries to stand back on his feet
The little prank has healed his pride
And confirmed him as the prince of street.