Hear Pipe

Our poor Pud usually insisted that his name was neither an acronym nor a slang term for penis. There were times of course - playing his old flute, barefoot and shirtless in some alley, the issue having been raised by a stranger - when he would do just the opposite.

The hell kind of name is that?

Stands for Public Unity Development.

What kind of stupid...

And of course, it was back to the flute. His story, gasped through musical phrases that tottered between subdued and moribund, was always approximately the same. Was always given ethereal credence by the subtle grayness of his skin. Scrawny limbs. Salient paunch.

I reckon I's born out one a them yawning gutters. You know the ones. Don't make em like 'at anymore. That metal that turn green with all the rain. Faces, you know. Them new ones is just bars across the gutter, grates. Squared and ugly. Well, them old ones aint like 'at. They was made to be punished, to slurp up all the city's filth and bear it. Now, some 'em will talk to you, you catch 'em in the proper light. That there's how I got to be named this way. They all full of sympathy. Can't help it. So I took up this hear pipe.