we slipped past the street vendors
Farooq and I, afloat a dusty gust
past the suspiciously shady alleyway
dodging the smell of urine and crime
we slipped past Kalu’s curious cart
an assortment of cheap plastic fixes
we laughed at the startled old man
running faster than his spit and curses
and we skid to a hasty bumbling stop
startled by the sight we had sought
It was the stranger, feathers in his hair
a riot of colours adorning his frame
a bizarre song upon his blackened lips
as he danced about the pavement
people laughed and cheered
and we slipped past the crowd in awe
Farooq and I, afloat a queer fantasy
In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.
Story Of The Footloose 