Like a skater on ice, I glided away,
When a friend cycled past me upon his bike,
Saying: “What are you doing now, what are you like?”
“I’m running for help”, that is what I said,
“And if you don’t run too, we shall all be dead.”
With that he pulled out a shotgun
And pointed it at my head.
He pulled on the trigger, but no bullet appeared.
He said: “I’m out of ammunition again,
Just like I’d feared.
I’ll simply have to let you live.”
He discarded his shotgun and reached into his coat,
Then pulled out a machete with which he proceeded to slit his own throat.

Onto the road his blood came pouring,
Dribbling all the way down the nearest hill,
And onto the footpaths the gore did spill.
Suddenly, I remembered my mission for help,
But sadly in the distance, I heard the woman yelp:
“They’ve raped me now, just like I said,
And it’s all your fault - you should be dead.
I asked you for assistance
But you did nothing instead.”
She was talking to me, that is how it did seem.
My life was now a nightmare
(It had previously just been a very bad dream).

Thus, in a state of utter bewilderment,
I shunned the rest of the world and continued alone,
To complete my lifelong quest,
To try and find my way home.
I had a home once, that is what I believed,
But I wasn’t really that sure
If I had ever had a home before.

I was tired and dazed within my head,
I wanted some sleep, I wanted my bed,
And so I continued my lifelong quest
To find myself a home and get me some rest.
Of course, as you all may know, I never arrived:
I just live on the streets, it’s a miracle I’ve survived.
I have no home, nor ever had,
It’s a devastating truth, it’s terribly sad.

Each night I lay down in the doorway of a shop,
With a concrete mattress and a blanket of freezing air:
It used to really upset me, but now I don’t really care.
I’ll probably live this way till the day I die,
And people will say as they remember my face:
“He was a dignified member of the human race.
We used to all love him and the things he did and said,
But the best thing that he ever did was make himself dead.”


© 2000 Matt Everett