Lone Struggle

No way this cat's gonna find a correct direction.
Shirtless, worthless, schitzophrenic peugalist cries "YOU! YOU! YOU!" and dusts his knuckles off on a no-left-turn sign.
His grimy pants around his knees, he marches free, proud, loud as a mountain, and wrong as hell.
Visible ribs under scabby parchment testify to hunger strengthened by days of nutritious nothing.
All around him he's surrounded on all sides by goblins, monsters, government spies, alien infiltrators, robots diguised as meter maids, cameras strapped to flying girraffes,
and all I'm willing to do
is get on the other side of the street
and give
two tons of thanks.