Enough About Me ...

There's this street musician who hangs in front of PCC, our local hippi mart, and does his show. Though I enjoy the snippet of a guitarist and his lament as I walk from A to B, this guy is a nutcase. He is neither lamenting nor reflecting. He down right taunts. Everyone who walks by suddenly appears in his lyrics. I've seen this tactic done on a candid camera tom green like show. That was funny. He is not. He's mean. I'm not sure the free range, wheatless, lactose intolerant customers can handle it. You go in for some neat loaf and exit the store to angry, hairy man saying you don't listen to his crappy music and why don't you people notice me? I'll tell you busker, it's because you should be singing about your dog that done did you wrong or the calla lilies should be pink pink pink like the colour of her skin. Accosting your audience won't put another nickel your guitar box, baby. You want fame? Well fame costs and right here is where you start paying, in poetry.