Another rough day, soÂ just a picture and a poem.
Charlie Freak had but one thing to call his own.
Three weight ounce pure golden ring, no precious stone.
Five nights without a bite, No place to lay his head,
And if nobody takes him in he’ll soon be dead.
On the street he spied my face, I heard him hail.
In our plot of frozen space he told his tale.
Poor man, he showed his hand,
So righteous was his need,
And me so wise I bought his prize for chicken feed.
Newfound cash soon begs to smash a state of mind.
Close inspection fast revealed his favorite kind.
Poor kid, he overdid, Embraced the spreading haze,
And while he sighed his body died in fifteen ways.
When I heard I grabbed a cab to where he lay.
‘Round his arm the plastic tag read D.O.A.
Yes Jack, I gave it back,
The ring I could not own
Now come my friend I’ll take your hand and lead you home.
— Steely Dan, from Pretzel Logic