The old bastard came in
And sat next to me on the subway.
He had on a sharp black velvet suit
And a matching fez.
If he knew the tune,
He’d have been whistling Dixie.
Everything about him was immaculate.
His hat, his trimmed beard,
Not a hair out of place,
Not a piece of lint on his suit.
Then I looked down at his feet.
His razor sharp ironed pants
Pointed towards his toes
Which stuck out of his sandals.
His toes were clean with clipped nails.
“but wait!” I thought,
“he’s only got four toes on that foot!”
It was true.
The second smallest toe on his right foot
Just simply wasn’t there,
Like it had never been there at all,
Just a smooth little spot.
“nice,” I thought. “nobody’s perfect.”