The big boy on the welfare cart
Takes up three quarters of a seat
And the junkie chick hangs on for dear life
She is nervous and somewhat wobbly

She's got track marks on her arms
They tell all about her past
Will she be here next year? I ask

She's suspicious and onto me
Craning to see just what I'm scribbling
The signal cord nearly rips off my head
As she yanks on it with all her strength
She is angry with energy
Everclearly on her way uptown
She is wearing a gawk and frown

Her pencil thin legs clicking together
Like a wind chime in a wind storm
Is this of the norm?

There she goes out the back door my birdlike eye scans the welfare cart for a new source of inspiration, a point of interest until I reach my final destination

Just who will be next?
For my character assassination attempt?
Just who will be next?