Yacking on the Man in Black

There I was sitting in class…
Watching the clock as minutes amass…
Into the room walks the man in black…
Looking as though he had just been attacked…

Flushed is his face, damp are his eyes…
His words were soft in hope of disguise…
Reached for his bag, struggled to hold…
No one knew the drama about to unfold…

Shades of pink and the arrival of smell…
Slowly we gazed and were able to tell…
That the man in black was covered in yack…
And leaving was his first order…

Was he sick?
Had he caught the flu?
Neither correct…
As I shall soon inform you…

A man of the streets had demanded some change…
He was tattered, broken and hairless with mange…
Only some change was his minimal need…
Providing him none was the unwise deed…

Up from his belly a caustic brew…
From top to bottom, soaking straight through…
The man in black learned something powerful that day…
Always carry change, or make a faster getaway…