Poetry – The Mad Man

Here he comes;
the king of his world,
covered in cheap regalia,
made with waste materials

With an aura of stench,
Piercing through the nostrils of men,
he treads and steps;
‘I’m a king’, he laughs with himself

You could hear the clanging of cans,
accompanied with the tinkling of glass;
as he moves in a dance,
celebrating his life’s pass

He looked at the crowd,
shook his head and bowed
then laughed so loud
‘what a mad kind’

At night, it’s time to sleep
he goes for a dirt heap,
stretched and yawned so deep,
‘Oh! it shall be a nice sleep’

His diet so rich,
as his subjects pay homage,
with all their leftover dish,
smiling to himself, ‘what a feast!’.