The synchronized traffic light, as we turn to the right,
Keeps us from running down folks all over town.
As the bus stops to pick up some more,
A shabby old bum stands in the door.
He smells and he yells, and he keeps us from moving.
He's got an idea that he thinks he is proving.
We sit and we listen and soon he steps down;
He mumbles and stumbles, and leaves with a frown.
It's hard to imagine he meant what he said;
He probably wanted some change, to get fed.
He put on quite a show as he stood and recited;
Though his poetry thundered, his performance was slighted.