I know it was the year of 1984 and that he smelt of a thrift store on a Sunday Morning.
He bought a record before he died, it was Otis. His mother loves Otis.
The only voice in his rummaged room was his own.
I think they called him Duckie.
He wanted her voice but she kept saying her phone was broken.
He wanted the rogue red-head with crafty clothes
She preferred the smell of money rather than old clothes
He scribbled on a wrinkled paper,
“The Duckman has left the building.”
With heart broken eyes,
he scratched an itch with a sharp piece of a record.
The news spread faster than old spice cologne
on a claustrophobic strut through