Scavenger Type

Gigin alone at the bottom of the hill

Our protagonist named Bill

Sets his sghts 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 keep 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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