Scribbles

Picture tomorrow through the eyes of the man,
In the mud-stained raincoat,
Blasting verse from a soap box stand.
He preaches a pied piper’s tune,
With a voice that carries you through time,
Through the haloed shadow from a stranger’s moon.
Into a land of peach coloured mountains
And cast away clones.
Across green penniless fountains
That nobody owns.
Where communist clusters in crumpled white suits,
Dine on marzipan oysters.
Where condensation and inspiration
Cling warmly to satin glass views.
Where lonely people love lonely places,
Where lonely people need second hand news.