Surfing the tables, burning,A pocketful of puff,Rough, off the cuff,And curling, the table turning.Rolling in dough, for show,Encrusting the rings,Everything’s thingsOn the street-worn skid-row.And there’s beef and a fat reef,The wisps caressing the lungAnd lines lined up amongThe brief relief from the grief.Away, so far, and gone,Shone, like the black sun,Silent, like a shooting gun,Ignorant…