As I queue here at the bank,
my mind goes roaming like the tank
that, stolen, rampaged San Diego,
mashed some cars like baked potatos,
knocked down poles and fire hydrants,
back in 1995.

The thief, they said a jobless plumber,
grabbed the craft and pulled a runner
down the streets on top of traffic,
smashing, crashing, wreaking havoc,
to run amok ignoring sirens
on the last day of his life.

So, anyway, I stand and wait,
and as I do I contemplate
the lives of folks and all their capers
that get their names in all the papers.

And with my musings here in line,
it seems to me that Michael Jackson
dangling his baby Blanket
from the balcony on four
did not ever stop to think
about all of the media stink
at little Jr on the brink
of reaching abruptly the floor.
The end.