who loves his selfhood and loves his fishing tackle,
what a man, smokes smokes his rolly's and drinks his brown liquor straight.
He slaps the mouths of the wicked children out of line, what a man,
takes the women out boating and gets the night-time spins,
bellows like Kerouac or maybe a more hellish Whitman, yawp-roar-yawp,
livid and alive, casting out line after line.
He's wasting your time, not his -
he's simply - no more - than Judas, watching the women grin.