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	EIGHTH AT EIGHT 
    
While walking when the southern wind changes in my direction
and become nor-easters such as a festering infection
I have not a choice but to go where my worn out shoes will take me
Until I reach far enough south for the sun to bake me 
so people inquire why I don't drive a car
and i tell them were i to own one I'd drive after leaving a bar

Panama Pete, the barkeep, knows straight vodka is all i ever drink
and he knows how many I need to no longer think
since drinking at eight A.M. only gets me in trouble with ladies or the law
and please don't think that alcohol is my only flaw

so I leave old Pete with his Panama hat well worn
until, more often than not, I awake on some stranger's lawn
how I got there and why I am indifferent to
and take my word for it I am different from you
you probably have loved ones who would care if you die
I, however, could expire and not a soul on earth would cry
no moans, no groans and no tears would be shed
for only Panama Pete will miss me when I'm dead

other people I’ve cheated will care not because they despise me
and no tuxedo, three piece suit nor pin-stripes can disguise me
i am what i am because of a detrimental mind
and people can discern what i am even if they're blind

So I arise from a stranger's lawn and keep on the run
while walking and vying with the wind or the sun
I am a walking and talking riddle and/or pun
and will be so until this farce of my life is deliberately done
(c) 2010......Poefree
(Panama Pete is actually his name and owns or owned a seedy bar on eighth avenue and 46th 
Street in Manhattan. i haven't seen him in eleven years but if he’s still among the living I’m 
giving ten to one odds that say, were i to walk in his establishment right now he'd pour me four 
and one on the house)
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