Bellydown in Blue

The failings of a self-servo coffee apparatus, tackled here for its doughnut deal, shut me back out into the rain empty-handed, and it was raining. Wasn't quite the collapsing straw, but it was close enough to hurt some. My contemporary, made of a stoop and somehow not Jewish, was more affable about the circ.; he had succeeded in his whim, and was eating it. But his presence was heartening, even amidst the jealousy, and the one thing stopping me from falling to my knees and bellowing.

Crowing the road, we each reached the other side (our goal, I think) and stood down underneath the boxcar sign in some anticipation. Deduction + the timetable informed us that the dusty old people-mover was to arrive somewhere in the next ten minutes, and in exactly those words. Noting this, we slunk further downwards and chewed the in-between time. My own attempts were via the voice-box. Speed: white.

"I'm close to soaked/my throat is choked/voice broke/and near-frozen/feel like I'm dozing/and I'm supposing/you're pretty cold too/bellydown in blue," I said, blatantly.
"Yes, I guess/but you're wearing less/you know it's L-E before S-S/yes, must be a lesson/to not put less on/to listen/while I'm addressin'/no woollen vest?/no winter's best?/but I digress/I'm cold, yes," said Mr. Bee. "Incidentally/that rhyme you sent me/did it really end that way?/well, evidently/but if you want fame/like some lame teen idol/next time don't integrate the title."
"At least this is the right place for it," said Ben, hopping off a street car.
"No — it's music, man. You don't read it." (Me on the defence.)
"Damn right you don't read it/you try and defeat it/with melody and harmony and strict line metres/need a bridge/need a verse and chorus/proper syntax or you're sure to bore us/and syllables/mostly ten/those low street thugs'll never beat Ben." (Ben on the attack.)
"You're missing the beat/this ain't no speech/your small white brain don't have the reach/your mind is blind/it just can't cut it/you say it's open but you already shut it."
"If my mind's white, what the swear does that make yours?/I'd say pure light but you ain't familiar with the laws."
"Light?/swear no/more like lightning/I'm as loud as J. Thunders and thrice as frightening/this ain't no impostor/ala Hawke in Gattaca/those words'll cost ya/'cause I'm blacker than Africa/I don't know if your attempts/are a joke or not/but one thing's for sure/I'm a true reverse-coconut."
Re-enter Mr. Bee.
"Down with love/lust/and all its followers/don't pay no mind or dollars/to no spitters or swallowers/just want a pretty lady/I don't pay/she don't pay me/we go to ballet and call each other 'baby'," says he.
"I win," said Ben.
But I won instead.

Laughing over mostly non-alcoholic beverages at the adjacent inn, we straightened the whole thing out. Turns out I won.