Pumping his fists
The smirk that said it all
Some may well see a smile
This exactly how he wanted it
Sits here with a warm mug of coffee, magazine in hand
Likes to slow the microphone on down
Bring it on home
Songs courtesy of locally brewed poems
And he starts to soak the whole room over
Just doesn’t care if you are drunk or sober
Pen at the ready, steady and willing to take his next line right on up to the stage
Outrageous relaxation aside sumptuous musical demonstation
He is our one final juvenile spoken word poet
Humble – yet to know it

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