Anyway, he raises himself from an excess of drink
to answer the door, and confronts there a little man
from the street, confused, whose gait is not straight,
and of all the sinners who shouldn't, is smoking.
A cigarette, that is, I didn't mean to say
he was himself a holy conflagration.
He is bearded, did I mention that? and a little salty,
despite his obvious destitution. So, "Well," says he,
the former, "what the fuck do you want, little man?"
and he, the supplicant, still salty, protesteth:
"It ain't what I want, hoss, but this!" and thrusts
forward a bright gold chicken from under his arm.
Still, it's not a chicken, but a cock, a golden ruddy
rooster, and a gift to light his blighted days thereafter.