He’s lazy, he’s dirty, he stinks,
he looks a bit silly and drinks
a pint on a bench in a park.

She’s pretty, she’s crummy, she’s soft
so even Rubens would have thought,
she goes and sits near him and smiles.

He spits and blows on a Cuban cigar
he shoves his hand in his pants and curses,
she crawls closer and suits her hair.

 A galaxy later (not so far away),
naked flesh on a bench,
within this strong smell,

 she is PURE
And he
my long forgotten

 WILD MAN.

 To Eric C, script coach

 

 

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