Mr Wilson took the backroad, but his 1972 Datsun failed him again, just as he feared. Mr Wilson suffers indecision - pity him, he can't decide to rid himself of the rusty rice burning car despite his anger when it dies on his way home in the rain leaving his loneliness on the increase as he traipses sloshing along his socks wet through his worn florsheims, leftovers from his days on wallstreet before he chucked it, ended living out of garbage bins, his two bedroom rust belt ramshackle waiting for the bankers' hammered pen stroke - all over this world I've roamed, I've never see an outlaw drive a man from his home- some rob you with a six-gun, some'll rob you with a fountain pen (thanks Woody Guthrie)- the marguaritas fogged his mind and he sloshes on past his street finds himself steaming in another bar drier and not drier and the next day his boss wonders where he is once again pity mr wilson and his indecision---------------------------------------------
Aspects
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