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The goddamned city's bank stretches before our man in every goddamned way: Left, right, up, down and back and forth in time as well; and there before that big beast, our little man, Shit Willy, rubs his scabby, thin and dirty hands together. "Don't look like the place for me," our hero thinks, "Looks like them's the folks that need the nicer stuffs." Just as he's about to sit down on the sidewalk and wonder where he's gonna go — if there was any other place to go — a cutsey-type chick walks up and says, "I'ma give you a lolly pop, Shit Willy. Come on up the steps a little — come on over — I got a sucker for ya."
"Shit," our hero gasps back; and he thinks to himself, "Sounds like maybe these is okay folks — seems they like to give stuff like suckers to people."
"Golly, miss" he calls out, "you're a pretty thing." He walks two steps towards the city bank and takes the cherry sucker that the cutsey girl offers him.
"What type a' place is this?," he asks, but the cutsey girl runs away, vanishing in a ripple of air as she charges away from a startled Shit WIlly who remains, left arm outstretched to where the girl had just been, left hand holding the lolly-pop.
"Hunh," he says, smiling to himself, "a funny place, this." He sits down and looks round, unwrapping the cherry sucker and sticking the candy ball into his cheek.
Well, I'm Shit Willy Dingleberry
All by myself
I'm Shit Willy, ordinary
Lonely by myself
But I don't feel so bad
'Cuz I'm happy by myself
I'm Shit Willy Dingleberry
Shit Willy Dingleberry
Shit Willy Dingleberry!
And I'm happy by myself!!!
Singing his Happy-Willy song, our hero rocks himself side to side, holding onto his ribsy chest and smiling while his lashes cherry moisten.
It's the kind of life our fella likes, he was born to scrape and sing by himself. Ever once in a while our Shit Willy might wander into where he reckons he's found a way to get to someplace good and when he does, well, shit on all the biscuits if he ain't the happiest, friendliest, most do-doing for the next guy fella that there'd ever been; but just for now, on this side of them real good moments, he's his usual, all lonesome full all by himself and so he sings his normal lonesome song — almost, but not quite yet cryin', and yet still somehow smilin', daytime dreamin' of that cutsey girl with a sucker stick-stickin' from the side of his mouth.
Truth be told, ar fella ain't too much for singin' or not too much for the listenin', that is. He likes to feel the words come out and hear the way they shake his head, but he ain't never drawn too much of an audience and certs right now he ain't drawin' a crowd, especial now with that lolly-pop all stuck in his mouth and blocking up his tongue.
I ain't never had a day o' mine
That I could ever call my day
My birthday passes party-less
And I don't get no gifts.
On Christmas I can't sleep in the park
'Cuz the christmas crowd's gotta light the tree
And I may get cheap turkey soup
On each lovin' Thanksgivin' Day
But mostly I just kick about
And stay out a' most folks' way.
And sweet Shit Willy does like to keep away from most folks. Most folks don't ever tell him nothin' nice no way. Always full a' piss and hate, most of all them other folks is. Didn't ever make much sense to poor Shit Willy. He always reckoned from what he'd seen that people gets shit done the best when they tries to be friendly. It just seems that so much pissed off is floatin' in the world that a man can't take two steps without slippin' in the devil's hate fallin' into some sort of reckless rage. "Pretty nasty spell to be puttin' on people," our Shit Willy often thinks, "A pretty nasty spell to make people think they gotsta have and hold and keep to feel secure; and ya' do now too; you gotsta hold on when everybody else does; unless you wantsta get pushed around by every type of nasty wind that wantsta blow you about and tell you where to be. "That ain't no kinda life," thinks Willy, "Man's gotta be a real man — brave enough to trust in what made him to keep him. That's what makes a man be real — trustin' in the meaning of the fact you already is."
Can't get down when you so low
That fallin' down can't hurt no more
Life goes on and I'll move on
I'll carry on — a totin' me
Well I'm Shit Willy — Yes, indeed —
And that's the way I most like me
Deep inside, I don't hurt none — 'cuz I don't do
Nothin' ta ma brother man —
I don't do nothin' ta ma sister, man,
I'm Sweet Shit Willy —
All good n' all.
"Excuse me, sir," a spectacled weenie-type cuts in, "Company policy says we're not allowed to have dirty, shitsy types around here; I'm very sorry, sir, but you'll have to move along."
Shit Willy opens his eyes and sees the chumpy fella. "Guy doesn't even know what he just called me," thinks our hero, "Guy just called me a shitsy type and don't even know he done it." Willy cocks his head at the guy an' rolls the sucker stick to the left side of his mouth, "Ah-ight," he says, and gives the weenie guy a quick wink with his left eye, "I'll shuv off. Ye just let me a' finish my song."
The weenie guy don't agree, but Shit Willy dudn't really care —
I jist set down for a sekund er two
N' some sorry bitch startsa
Pushin' me along!
I'm poor Shit Willy, but I mind if I do.
I'm a tired ol' fella' n' it hurts me ta move.
But I'll getsta goin' cuz the floor is kinda hard
And I know the only down is the floor.
Weenie guy puts his hands on his hips, tilts his head to the side. He don't like this type of fella, our weenie guy don't. He don't like the kinda fella that don't move when he gotsta. He's thinkin', "Those other types of shitsy guys, there's not really anything wrong with them. They go when they need to, but this sorry fellow just sits and sucks and keeps on singing. Something's wrong with this kind of guy. This kind of guy can get kind of dangerous. This kind of fellow causes problems."
"You'll have to move, sir. You are obviously a dirty, shitty type and we are not allowed to allow you to remain. Do you understand?" Willy makes no sign of hearing him. "Do you understand? This is my job. I have to ask you to move, sir."
Willy is moving though; he's rockin' side to side and singing his most happy song.
They's bin times, when Ah bin bad,
An' ya' know I took sum knocks fer' it.
But I don't care!
Nah, Ah don' CARE!!!
Shit Willy's really gettin' into the rockin' now — All cronin' with his body stretchin' to push his voice out. And more folks is comin' down, too. Like I said he don't draw no crowds with his cronin, but he does drag out the up-tight types. A fella all uniformed and badged up comes out now, outa the bank.
"Look, bud," says the uniform, "Ya dun herd it from the boy. Ya ain't allowed here. These ain't yer steps. Ya gotta get on, now, or I'ma libel ta hafta make ya — n' I can get real accidental on a fella like you — Real, real accidental."
Willy don't much get afraid these days. So this here uniform is mostly just wastin' his time, but he ain't fully really wastin' it — not as uniform's concerned. He gets paid fer every second he's all in his get-up. So's he can't really be wastin' time. Plus, it kinda makes the time pass quicker — yellin' at these shitsey types.
The weeny type fella's got his arms all crossed now. He's all lookin' in between the two other fella's. He's got his face all pinched like he's sayin' to the uniform, "See what we have here? We have one of those types of fellow — one of those types of fellow that doesn't care how much trouble they make for other types of fellow."
And Willy don't care — Willy's just beltin' it out now — Singin' at the top of his lungs —
I'm Shit Willy and I don't care!
I'm Shit Willy and I don't care!
I'm Shit Willy and I don't care!
'Cuz yer a CUNT-ASS Tool a' the Sih-ih-STUM!!!
And, oh, boy, but the uniform don't like that. Naw, naw, the uniform don't like that kinda speak at all. That's all wrong like that. He ain't talkin' right at all — and the weeny boy's all let himself go — all drawin' back with his arms uncrossed and just shocked to all his golly-jeeses by what he knows he couldn't have just heard.
And now that uniforms' all over Shit Willy — just smackin' him all on the face with one hand while the other's got him locked by the collar. But Shit Willy's just laughin', see. He don't care. This fella can't hurt him none. He's just reaffirmin', see. He's just settin' the truth down to what Shit Willy's always known.
But the weenie guy is screamin' now, 'cuz the uniform's just gettin' madder. Uniforms all smackin' Shit Willy and Shit Willy's just gigglin' and suckin' on his lolly-pop. Weenie keeps screamin' — all wantin' ta see Shit Willy get his shit kicked, but all down in his gut he's all grossed out 'cuz Shit Willy's face is all comin' off onto uniform's hands and uniform's gettin' all red and brown and nasty, but Shit's still gigglin' — still gigglin' 'til he ain't nothin' but a set a' jaws all locked down on that lolly-pop stick and his tongues all floppin on the ground roun' the candy ball. Can't really tell if he's still laughin', but I gotta feelin' ol' Will's alright. Most Dingleberry's don' t really give a shit about their faces no-how.
