Shoulders high he saunters in,
Confidence betrayed by his grin.
He shows them off, his high end gear,
Mirror-polished shoes, man of the year.
He owns the room, he sets the mood.
He knows this fact, he’s a cool dude.
Victory fingers to his lips,
He takes on-lookers stares for keeps.
He shakes a hand, then he greets
Through the charred bones he calls his teeth.
Standing in line, he puffs his smoke
Without a care, ill-mannered bloke.
As he enjoys the devil’s leaves,
We too must take what free he gives.
His business done he leaves in songs,
Time bombs ticking in our lungs.