High Noon

The Hateman struts Ludwig's Fountain
In a wraparound India print skirt,
Screaming to all and sundry,

Your mother's a Macarthur Street whore,
But she does so badly she's on welfare.
Your father's rotting in his grave,
And it was you who put him there.

Some listen in passing, some stand and gawk,
Others go about their oblivious business,
But who would venture a reply to that?

He's got the floor of the fountain,
Long as the drought don't fade
And the tap don't go on.

Weekdays, you'd find him downtown,
A San Francisco 9to5er in a three piece suit.
Cornered, trapped out of his element, you'd take him on.

Wouldn't you, D.?

Shut up, Shut up, I say.

Out of nowhere,
Corner of Market and Montgomery,
At high noon.