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An ordinary young man in his twenties
Working by day, alone by night
Routine lulls him to feel forever serene

Never a new dream or fantasy
Living an obligation
Making his parents proud yet nothing causes him to become too loud

Drab clothes
Make him an easy target for his many foes
Friends don’t know his name
Except for those who know him as Mr. Cello-phane

Multitudes cross his path yet all see right through
To ignore him is nothing new
He yearns for love yet learns the mundane
At times he cries in solitude, wailing profane

He’s not funny
He can’t dance
He wouldn’t dare take a chance

Never a thought to take a risk
Fearing it may end with a police frisk

He has no vice
His purity will have to suffice
There is no vodka or casual sex
No gambling nor the audacity to bounce checks

Never a spontaneous trip or even a sarcastic quip
He won’t even call in sick
His excuse could never be sufficiently slick
He’s ever so wholesome which leaves him so lonesome

He won’t smoke nor tell a funny a joke
When a gorgeous woman does pass
He wouldn’t dare turn to check  out her ass

He won’t masturbate for fear of the guilt he would eventually subjugate
He’s neither priest nor pastor
Not particularly religious or prodigious

His hair is straight and teeth are white
His clothes are neat yet invoke fright

He’s not articulate nor original in thought
He’s paralyzed by the fear of getting caught

Dull, lifeless and only in his twenties 
He’s nearly dead, living a life he would rather shed

Strolling in the Village heading east on Bank
Measuring his paces as if walking the plank 
Now turning onto Bleecker, emotionally he’s never felt meeker

A pause and a glance interrupts his trance
An unfamiliar energy encourages him to chance
In the shop window, white suede wing tips lure with magic
Spending his last dollar could be fatefully tragic

He dons the wing tips, they are so in vogue
Giving him an edge to become so rogue
Deliberately knotting the candy apple red laces
A surge of confidence he sees reflected in others faces

He strides through midtown, pacing toward Central Park
Noticing a difference in himself that’s shockingly stark
His bold choice of shoe has led him to a personal breakthrough

Could it be that it was he
Living all this time without a shine
A living dead yet not a zombie
How could he have lived a life so glumly

He chooses not to look back with remorse
For today he has chosen an invigorating course

A simple catalyst thrust his status to protagonist
White suede wingtips with candy apple red laces
All his demons his new spirit chases

A small, seemingly innocuous purchase drains his sadness
Building fresh momentum, his fulcrum enabling brashness 

Find your catalyst, small or large
And assume your role to take charge

For him it’s white suede wing tips with candy apple red laces
For you, never surrender hope or eliminate its traces
You may find your trigger in the faces of unknown races

Don your white suede wing tips, gently kiss her lips, firmly grasp her hips  then create a never ending stream of personal championships

White suede wing tips with candy apple red laces
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