Hope is the thing playing checkersit perches quietly in the peppersAnd sings like a tunnel rat.Hair is the thing on Boris Beckerit perches on him like a knit sweaterAnd smells like total crap.Hollywood is the thing with smokersthey perch like spots on a leopardand hide in a basement laundromat.Honor is the thing that sobersit perches on either shoulderand sings Burt Bacharach.Home is the thing with a familiar odor
its unoffensive to its owner
and lingers over chitchat.
Healing is the thing with liquor
it perches deep in your liver
and puts its arms around you like a heart attack.