Gigging alone at the bottom of the hill
Our protagonist named Bill
Sets his sights on an anchor steam pint
All he needs is thirteen quarters
Congregated in his hat

A crow, a scavenger type
California redemption
Provides him with his rent
Room and board inside of
A fifth of comfort

As the wind penetrates his bones
His mind keeps focused
Tidal waves of sound
Catapulted from his horn wail like lovers

The coins don't drop consistent
As does the mercury
His meter slows, realizing a zenith
He's reached perfection
No one did see him die