Hobo I I'm a hobo in a comic strip, dozing on a hill underneath a tree-- I've got the soles of my worn-out boots flapping in the breeze so my toes poke through. I've got a long string of Z's growing from my lips like this: Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z and then one of these: (wh-wh-wh-wh-w h i s t l e). I've got a five o'clock shadow. Got my stuff in a bundle. Laid out below me is a town called Next-- I've got a noggin full of songs, got a story on my tongue, but I've got absolutely no other prospects. II I'm a hobo in a comic strip, strolling through town-- I keep my hobo nose up and my pointy elbows pointed down. "Good day, Sir! Ma'am! Lovely baby in the pram!" See--I've got pride enough to last me past tomorrow, cuz I never borrow, never steal, never beg-- not even when my thought bubble goes: Chicken Leg. But...what is that smell? Over past the planter with its tidy row of daffodils? What is that cooling on the window sill? My oh my-- it's an apple pie. With a crisscross crust. And you know what else it's got? Those three squiggly lines rising from the top. Yep--the apple pie is piping hot. Mmmmmmnn Mmnn! Hmmmmmmnn. Better think for a minute. Turn my lucky pocket inside-out, see if happenstance maybe put a penny in it. Unhh-unhh... Better think. Think. Think of things only a hobo knows: Like how a hedgehog'll run the way his hedgerow goes. How the cold sleet'll eat you when the North wind blows. How the crickets chirp quicker where the green corn grows. How to tramp through manure, come out smelling like a rose... oooooop. I get my lightbulb pose. III I'm a hobo in a comic strip, with a homemade bouquet-- I spent a good quarter hour plucking just the perfect flowers. So I take off my hat when I step up on that stoop, and I'm hoping this heat doesn't wilt these posies so they droop towards the Welcome mat on the front porch floor. When Va-va-va-voom comes to the door. And she is so well-drawn, so proportioned and pretty-- I figure: Maybe she moved here from Comic Strip City-- she’s got those long eyelashes and an apron on. And this is how the hobo and the homemaker meet: Her with a speech balloon looming overhead like a typographic moon going: "Flowers? For me? How sweet!!" And then awww how she blushes when she gets a glimpse of mine, going: "Asterisk! Exclamation point! Ampersand! 'At' symbol! Dollar sign, dollar sign... You're fine!" (That next-to-last panel is so much my favorite, I should clip it out and stick it to an icebox and save it-- cuz right there, right then I'd see my heart, my hobo heart, jump from my chest and thump back again.) IV I'm a hobo in a comic strip, side by side on a porch swing singing with my comic strip bride. We like to watch the fireflies light up the dusk. And I painted two pickets on her white fence rust. Reminds me of railroad tracks. They say: "Hey, mister, listen-- ain't ya ever come back? To whistling in the moonlight, and pissing in the dust?" And oh boy I just might. And I might just not. And I might let the notion go done get forgot. I mean, my oh my-- I get daily apple pie. I'm a hobo in a comic strip, and every so often I'll tell folks stories when I don't really mean 'em. But oh don't the twilight stars twinkle. Don't the honeysuckle blossom. Don't two lovebirds descend with a banner between 'em. That's right, friend: The End.