The Night Shelter

It's five a.m.; the driving rain
And howling wind breed mental pain.
Deprived of sleep by rampant storm,
Thus after five they'll not be warm.

Nocturnal peace, supernal bliss
Is shattered, scattered far by this
Maternal voice of colonel-type -
At five collective hate is ripe!

Tornadic rush, an addict here,
A gangster there; but none to fear.
Nomadic tribe, sporadic stays,
But all will dance, when ,'colonel'
plays!

The stewing crowd is queuing now
At six, though most detest the chow.
There's hewing, hacking, spewing out;
Thus, in the day, they scrape about.

At five p.m. arrive they back;
It's five bucks in, out if you lack.
They jive through gates, the hive's astir.
Then shower all, let none defer.