And, at that Paris station, they closed the doors throughout,
For cleaning through the morning, insisting - stragglers out.
So it was that a few of us spent the night on the street,
And, I do declare to you, it left young me dead beat.

Structured like this, one could very well sing it to the old Mutton Pie melody and stick a fol-the-diddly-dido / fol-the-diddle-day chorus after it too. Also, anything that fits Mutton Pie (and quite a few things do) also fits the tune of the Holy Modal Rounders' Same Old Man. Otherwise, it's the sort of thing one might smile at if one found it anonymously scrawled on the door of public toilet - which isn't to taint public toilet folk verse by associating it with WAV's drivel, rather to suggest a more appropriate context for it. The dynamic sense of the thing in terms of narrative is entirely mired by the sentimental superfluity of the last verse as the poet vainly struggles to connect his subjective misery to the wider issues of the objective world that so constantly, and consistently, elude him. Or is that the point (one can't help but wonder)? If so, such noble sentiments are but the flotsam on the tide of a manifest bitterness of personal failure and general inconsequence that pervades his work as a whole and is the root and cause of its expressed racism. Even his desolate cry of I love the world being multicultural is one of the misanthropic outsider cast adrift in a search for the centre of his own little universe wherein he, and his Life's Work, is all that matters. Whatever the case, in Poem 19 of 230, Walkaboutsverse has provided himself with the perfect epitaph: A Straggler in the Human Domain.