Every morning
you see him there
with a rag tied
in his hair
on the corner
of 17th and Grand
and tho the war
is undeclared
he's making
his last stand

his nose is broke
it's taped across
but he's too thin
too be a boxer
wears white athletic socks
pulled up his skinny legs
that look
too weak to walk

     he's the madman of music row
     singing with his heart and soul
     the song that everybody knows

he might be drunk
he must be high
probably both
because he sure looks
satisfied
even if his desire
has outburnt his fire
to be alive

he don't talk
he ain't got time
the horns honk
as the traffic whines

the tulip trees
shoot the breeze
tin birds chime
in a carnival of sound
turning in the merry-go-round
of his mind

     he's the madman of music row . . . .