Gigin alone at the bottom of the hill Our protagonist named Bill Sets his sights on an anchor steam pint All he needs is thirteen quarters Congregated in his hat A crow, a scavenger type California redemption provides him with his rent Room and board inside a fifth of comfort As the wind penetrates his bones His mind keeps focused Tidal waves of sound catapulted From his horn wail like lovers The coins don`t drop consistent as does the mercury His meter slows realizing a zenith He`s reached perfection No one did see him die.
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