XXI

He'll sit on that bench for as long as he pleases,
ain't no one gonna tell him to leave!
'Cause he's got a plan, Frank Alan Rose,
a plan that will surely succeed.

He'll stumble around with that bottle in hand,
that cigarette perched on his lips.
He'll call you a homo, a queer, and a fag,
he'll tell you your mother's a bitch.

He'll wave those tobacco-stained hands in the air,
and ask for the three letter word meaning 'gain'.
He'll ask for your weight, your height, and your age,
'cuz Frank Alan Rose takes pleasure in pain.

He'll chuck skittles at children
and aim for their heads,
he'll shout there's no Santa
and that the Tooth Fairy's dead.

He's got a bad temper,
uncouth to the bone.
That bottle's his friend
and that bus stop's his home.

XXII

I asked for an Angel and what did I get,
but Frank Alan Rose the walking tar pit.
He stands by my bed with his angelic glow,
or is that just smoke from his ash covered Bristol?

I asked for an answer oh boss man above,
so what is the meaning of this poor wrinkly shlub?
Is this some kind of Heavenly joke,
send me an Angel who's clearly flat broke?

I don't ask for much, oh heavenly savior,
so why turn your head when I ask for a favor?
I mean, I'm rhyming dear lord
ain't that enough, or are you just bored?

XXIII

This guy won't give help,
except for a price,
he told me as he unfastened his belt.

Shocked I replied
are you the Devil disguised?
Are you a trickster who's sent
from below?

He laughed and said nah,
as he put out his smoke.
I'm the chump no one wanted,
I'm that heavenly joke,

the dude with the whiskey
and horrible hair.
So don't cry on my shoulder
'cuz I clearly don't care.

I'm that slob on the bench,
I offend garbage men.
I'm just the Angel God pulled
from the bin.