The mad and homeless take shelter

Against the cold weather

In tombs of the fabulously rich,

Where they huddle in their rags

And make themselves scarce only

When a hearse comes along

Bringing the smell of freshly-cut roses

And a drove of funkies

With snow on their black shoulders

In a hurry to lower the heavy coffin

So it can go to hell on Satan’s luxury

Train where they kick their shoes off,

Gourmandize and sip wines

Even God himself never gets to sip,

As they pass the fires, the chilled crowds

Of the damned lining the tracks,

Straining to catch a glimpse of them.