Perfect Imperfections.

Toil nurtures responsibility and level-headedness
And then comes humanness on the next rung
That's my lil' brother
In the corridors of sordid streets
Heading an impossible bucket with milky water
Squeezing out of marshy grounds
Feet chapped, in altogether
With a moth-eaten heavily soiled t-shirt
Traversing clumsily through numberless potholes
Thick white dust blanketing the hungry scaly skin
Which runs down uniformly to the staggering feet
Of which toes stumble on savage obstacles
Fresh innocent blood spluttering out
Yet he's jocund out of this-
Out of this lifeless life enhoused with crookery
Boldness, vivid memories is what grows out of him
He doesn't need the Western pity to lift him
'cz a remote control masks idleness
And doesn't make cast iron bones
Which the turning world requires
So let it be
It's already in its apple-pie order
These are grotesque beauties
Yes, bad goodies