Vanishing Sands
He bounds with class like a souped-up Benzo
Slick hair defies gravity and air flow
More charm for the maidens than Lorenzo
Nod and a wink as he offers hello
Dressed to the gills like a TV comic
His voice rolling to knock down those stacked pins
Punching through Vegas with force atomic
Regardless the price he still always wins
They call him D-Bone, the lolling salesman
Eager to cement melodious deals
One step ahead of the scowling bailsman
All while he's molting his naive ideals
Muses abound from that puffy wineskin
No slowing down so he cannot look back
Trading brew city for all that dull sin
He's jamming while crooning to the rat pack
"How many swimming pools have they got here?"
He points while nodding to the lounged ladies
Reveling within this neon frontier
Baking his brains while chauffeured through Hades
Filled with mirth despite jonesing for cash
Vowing with pumped fists to never slink back
Pondering how he shall make his big splash
Those jaded fiends gauge him as just a hack
What they don't know could fill a museum
For he esteems and comprehends the past
These stuffed shirts would build a mausoleum
Before they'd construct relations that last
In his mind he hangs with Frank Sinatra
When respect held clout and coolness was king
Romantic songsmiths governed the genre
Liberated minds stormed at full swing
D-Bone refuses to pluck their ticket
As they tell him he needs to wait in line
When confronted he tells them to stick it
Keenly scanning the distance for cloud nine
Copyright © John Weber | Year Posted 2008
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