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He has forearms much like Popeye; he loves his pork and beans;
And the mussels bulge all over; especially his jeans.
His face looks like a road map;his attitude is harsh;
He likes to take the girls he meets; to his hideout in the marsh

Like a poet who don’t know it;
In his face it surely shows it;
But if you look it’s all around us
He’s as old as Nostradamus 

People say he’s no good; and maybe they are right;
That’s what many like to have; when the lights go out at night.
He has been called the ghost man; but Casper he is not;
He’s the midnight bedroom dancer; cooking up his plots

And he’s not as fat as hell; he can see all his essentials
And the stories in the break rooms say; this fellow has potential
He sits there reading magazines; titled avant-garde;
And all in there is easy; but out here it’s so hard.

Oh my God these pictures; have no flowers or a moon;
The drawer in this write does think; the digs are coming soon.
But ah predictability; such a pleaser to the crowds;
It’s like television cartoons; being played too loud.

No offense is offered; except those fences that are broken;
And the cartoon with-out pictures; the artist is just joken;
But if it passed you over; just look from over here;
You can laugh like crazy at it all; or cry all in your beer.

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