He’s seventy and heavy set
His phone never did forget
The voicemail option, he’s
Always talking and walking
He may never do for business
Is better made sitting down
Talking loud ignoring the
Terminal cloud of faces
Of races and ethnicities
In big cities he may never
Go to, a briefcase brownish
Bent on edges he stands on
Ledges talking on his phone
Controlling his safety zone
Breaking the ozone I hope
God would do to you,
Shooting stars could fall
Down on you, businessman
As you are just like all of us
Tamed down and taken down
And wordly drowned out of
Silence and living in efflorescence
Becoming who you want to be,
Making your deals with nobody
Taking your business too seriously
