He sits in the corner
gulping down fries.
Red are the veins
of his smoky, smeared eyes.
Alone with his pad and the pens that he brought,
penning to paper his poetic thought.
He looks like the others;
a coke and Big Mac.
Hunched as he sits,
(which is bad for his back).
He doesn't dress well,
looks a bit like a slob.
Traces of special sauce
stick round his gob.
He's hard to detect at first glance
'cause he merges
into this environment of hungry urges.
To spot him you must be aware of the time.
He sits there for hours to write and to rhyme.
He's sitting and writing and staring for hours.
A Big Mac, the bloke at next table devours.
Opposite him Quarter Pounder is et;
a round belly-line becomes still rounder yet.
He notices not the consumed carbohydrates;
it's words and their meanings on which he concentrates.
If he recites it aloud then you'll knowit;
you're witnessing live one more McDonalds poet!
(c) MrsMyth
