King of Cool

Oh, you long
To crack his code.
If it’s not the secret handshake
Then it’s the “you the man;”
Not the richer clothes
And cigar puffs
To distract them
From his hairline or waistline,
Then it’s the way he dances
To the music that says nothing;
Big butt cheeks protruding
White man over-biting.
And his confidence….
Sure the aura of confidence
Is easier to convey
When premised upon
Such a hazy depth of field
And shallow insight,
Because the bar is as low
As it is pliable.
Yet still there is ever
Something about him
… king of cool …
it is unmistakable;
just ask his friends
and their desperate housewives;
desperately rich
And yet bankrupt
With their stocking feet
On their pudgy hubbys' thighs
And shopping bags strewn about beneath tables
like the spoils of dinner.
Like tape to the back of a poster,
He takes more
Than he ever gives…
but that is okay.
Like mosquitoes
To white light;
Like a halo of flies
Round a fresh turd,
You heed his mandate
Like all of them,
For to die among friends
Unoriginal
Uninspired
Narrow lips
And beer-retarded ambition
Infinitely exceeds a death
Left wanting
To be the man…
just like him.