There is an old voodoo man, he lives and walks the streets.

I see him early in the morning,but he never sees me.

His eyes are clear as

glass.

He has homemade shoes upon his feet.

There are symbols painted on his hat,around his neck,

a necklace of teeth.

He walks with a staff,and taps along to his own beat.

Blind as a bat he speaks in tongues of poetry,

as if the world he has seen.

His soul has the depth of a million men,yet he is just the one.

His lyrics drip like honey,from his wise old tongue.

I watch how people treat him as passer by’s on the street.

They gasp in disgust and move around him,

if he asks for a buck to eat.

His difference is his beauty Atleast, this is what i see.

Depth is sight for the voodoo man,

that lives and walks on the street.