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