My rendition of Dr. Davidson's handout improv:
Dealing With It
Dealing With It
There’s a basketball court in Brooklyn
and a diner on the corner where
one letter doesn’t work, making
the sign read Lary’s instead of Larry’s
but hell everyone is missing something
and I have to deliver this mail before 5:00
to all the customers on my route without
riling up any racial reactions like when
old man Benedict sic’d his piebald mastiff
on me for not bringing his mail to the door
only we have to use the cubicles assigned
to each tenant at the street or we’re breaking
the damn law—that’s how life gets fucked up
y’see when rules don’t work for everybody
‘cept those who make ‘em and I guess it’s
the same wherever you go whether it’s
Guyana or Trinidad near the Antiguan border
or it may be even worse in Jamaica and Barbados—
but damned if care about anywhere while I have to
negotiate this piss-infested machine of a city
where all the parts have to be greased daily
or it grinds to a freakin’ halt
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