King alone at the bottom of the hill

Our proagonist named Bill

Sets his sights on an anchor steam point

All he needs is thirteen quarters

Congregated in his hat



A crow, a scavenger type

California redemption provides him with his rent

Room and board inside of a fifth of comfort



As the wind penetrates his bones

His mind keeps focused

Tidal waves of sound catapulted

From his horn wail like lovers



The coins don't drop consistent as does the mercury

His meter slows realizing a zenith

He's reached perfection

No one did see him die