I Saw A Man Lie On A Wall

I saw a man lie on a wall,

he must have been but five feet tall.

Had he no cares if he should fall?

Alas seemed not, no none at all!

Although the sky was grey with rain,

the umbrella was propped without a stain,

while any thoughts (damp, cold or pain?)

like pesky bugs he did disdain.

Emblazoned on his smart beige case

an L.S.L. in black did grace,

the rest was left as empty space,

save scuffmarks on the out-worn base.

Unto the sky, there rose some smoke,

a pillar, halted with every toke,

like matchstick men each drawn bespoke,

from fags that from his mouth did poke.

I wondered if his brain was fried,

Through stress or sorrow deep inside.

Or if, indeed, he’d simply died,

but kept on moving, just from pride.

Probably not, his diaphragm moved his hat,

which made him look so oddly fat,

but at least it could be discerned that

we didn’t need an ambulance, stat!

Who was this man, I hear you ask,

that lay upon a wall to bask?

Well now it is my life-long task,

his means and motives to unmask.

No-one asked wherein he worked!

Perhaps in some studio factory he lurked,

all his important duties blithely shirked!

It’s no bloody wonder he smirked!

(Meanwhile, the ticking clock of time,

suggested noon has passed it’s prime.

I doubt he earned a single dime,

if his bosses learned of his crime!)

Of where he lived, it can’t be far,

from where industrial landscapes are!

Oh, and isn’t it quite bizarre:

He’s a shoddy knock-off Ringo Starr!

Forgive me, please, for your time taken,

His countenance had left me shaken.

I never checked if he will waken,

lest all my efforts be forsaken!