Poor Malbenis - Poem by Salil Singh
He shambles through street lamp-lit arcades, a shambles
Dogs howl at his impending demise and growl
They all want a pound of his flesh..
The cold girl, the multitude and the frail contender
connive to kill the deliverer of ill fortune
A little love for this pitiful wreck
stab wounds in his chest and arms, they'll stop at nothing
Oh no, they'll stop at nothing
He will come to an end, and all will be fine..
Thus they pray.
Malbenis lived in an unshaven house with a pubic growth on his face
All his milk was curdling on the refrigerator – a shame, he is dying.
Pull him to a café, Make it Irish – and he’ll give you mad apocalyptic poetry
And it’s a good deal, he’s cheaper than whores; you should try him
And if the general stench gives you a headache in that household,
Pull a filthy pan from the pile and smack it over his head
May that belter raise a welter
And push his pitiful wits away
They say he has been sat there in waiting for a woman
But whiskey-breath needs to be taught what a woman wants.
“Isn’t love enough”? – BANG! That’s that pan again
You’re doing him a favour.
Angelheaded whores frolic in Malbenis’s gardens
But Malbenis is a servant – and these women are of high breeding
Anyway, who knows if the poor sod can get it up at all?
Hahhahahahahahahahhhhahaha – point and laugh, point and laugh
You can hop while you do it, the whores are having a nice time
Malbenis drank spoilt milk, and he’s puking in the shitter.
Now and then silly tourists come to the door
“We heard of a great old fool who lived here, yes”
And when they see him, some scurry, some gape and tremble
But there was this one guy who got it, he sat right down
His family’s still looking for him
The two still haven’t spoken, it’s getting on twenty years
And the whores wonder where these madmen find each other
But perhaps fifty beards worth of pondering later
They will give us the word.
Let our heroes sit where they do, and we can observe what occurs in the adjoining rooms
where their loves are being stripped naked and fondled by unworthy men, its consensual
And somewhere in working class homes their stories are being told
So that little kids may know better than to play in the bearded man's house.
But i'll be damned if you can stop 'em.
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