They’re an odd lot, the bunch
of folk who’ll meet here tonight.
We’d let them have the room free
but they insist on paying rent.
It’s my job to set up for events,
but they insist on doing it,
say moving chairs, cleaning up,
means service, keeps them on track.
And I meant that “odd” part in the odd lot.
Who’d ever pick these folk as friends?
The cars outside go from rattletraps to posh,
and you wouldn’t believe the fellow who
rides with the one who drives a Porsche,
I swear he’s some bum off the street!
You can’t help but like them all,
even the obnoxious ones. They’re so open,
honest, full of hope. They’ll sit and
say the same things they said last week
and those before, and get so jazzed up over it.
They’re an odd lot. Their coming here,
though, somehow makes my week complete.