Gigin alone at the bottom of the hill Our protagonist named Bill Sets his sights on an anchor steam pint 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 keep 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
