It's cold and it's dark here and my butt is wet and my hands and knees hurt.

This stinks.

Like it actually smells bad here.

I wonder if this puddle I sat down in is rainwater or hobo pee.

Do you know what they call that little sack of hobo carries all their stuff around in?

Let's call the bindle.

I knew a boy once in school whose last name was bindle.

I wonder if that means his ancestors were hobos or they carried stuff for hobos?

How low on the totem pole do you have to be to be a hobo's personal servant?

Well, I might have talked though.

I'm sitting in a hobo's pee puddle.

Passure ran out of pop songs he knew the lyrics for about five minutes ago so he sings

one about someone whose shirt has green sleeves.

People will write songs about anything.

Rain drops, cars, what day of the week it is.

There's even songs about other songs.

I am the one and only.

I sing to myself because pasture song is putting me to sleep and now is not the time for that.

Nobody I'd rather be.

Outside it's quiet.

No sirens of other police cars coming to the rescue.

No ambulances or even someone shouting because they see the crashed vehicle with officer

...