Every evening,
Hear him pull through the
alleyway
Headed to what must be the
solace of
Hearth and home at the end of
his day.
Not that the engine of his
Tracker is
A loud unmuffled roar;
Not that the potholes in the
alley scream
Of rattles bottomed out;
Not that he's greeted at his
door by
Loved ones gladly welcoming
his
Tired bones to a weary rest
After an arduous evening out.
How do we know our neighbor
is home
Just as our sleep time is
settling in?
"Boom-ba da boom-ba da
boom, boom, boom"
Our walls quake with the
deafening din.
How can he stand it?
What evil demon possesses his
spirit...
Rules over his mind?
Piercing his ears to the
marrow of bone,
Leaving all semblance of
logic behind,
Filling his head like a horn
of plenty...
He'll probably be deaf by the
time he is twenty.
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