King of 22nd Street

The King of 22nd Street
stands idle in the rain.
A bottle in his right hand,
a cane in the left.

Collecting money on the corner,
to buy himself a crown.
Sitting to rest on a crate,
believed to be his throne.

He screams in the night,
"I'm the King of 22nd Street,
got a problem?
You have to answer to me."

The Kingdom turns their backs on him,
some sit and stare.
Lights go out,
22nd Street is bare.

The King bows his head,
tears streaming down his face.
He's down on his luck,
with a bottle of Jack,
lost in a world of pain.





Sandra Murdoch-Becker, Copyright 1994