The Census Taker and the Blues Woman

Nuttin' worse than having to deal with some righteous head-counter
come to the door first thing in the morning, askin' bout my kids. Census Bureau man
in a worsted suit. I say he was worsted,
done down by a grey wool monster.
Wants to know, I got dependents? Naw.
I squeezed my eggs out, fried 'em in a shallow pan and had 'em for breakfast
while you skinny wife was "practicing sun salutations"
with her home-call yoga coach
and you were truckin' up my sidewalk in your disaster suit. Kids?
You got bigger worries than the kids I don't have.
Quit knockin' on people's doors. Dump the cheatin' woman.
Lose the suit.

More word salad

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