Fortress of Squalidtude

Superman I is. Super- mess, for me, a wiz.. Lurking here, in my Fortress of Squalidtude. Like a warehouse waiting to ignite, I'd hardly put up a fight. One way to clear it up, become a street beggar with a tin cup. Bed of newspapers, diet of Salvation Army soup...Why would I wanna' recoup?? I tried it their way. Just didn't work....More than once I was called a jerk.. So Tom The Tramp I'm destined to be....Nobody even notices me. Dining in a dumpster, sleeping on concrete. This is a life so sweet. No alarm clock, no fresh pressed suit, no big fancy car that proves I can "do it!" No HD TV, no lunch dates, no birthday cards. Just a lost and lonely man, unsure why he exists. Perhaps I'll head for the long abandoned wharfs, where the Norwegian Brown rats reign, in hopes they'll tolerate me for this one last cold night. How it got this way, I'm not sure. Or how much more humiliation, I can endure. No place I can find a bed. No place for a hot meal to be fed. No nieces, no nephews, no children who care..merely an ex-wife's blank stare. Never robbed nobody, never killed no one, never understood, just what it is I'd done. Toast and coffee, sounds so regale...a counter-seat at the diner, sounds illegal. Guess I didn't quite measure up, to what God considers, a full cup. So I wander, there, and yonder....why was I chosen for this fate? I ponder.