Cool Dude

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.