Once there lived thy boss of us all
Who we admired whilst we conspired
Oh boy, how charming he was.

Aye thy boss said, in his stubbornness,
“Hew,” and his men said —
“Another day of keeping the job.”

Thy boss was such a good man of all kind,
At least that’s what people thought.
But he did have some privacy,
That he was insolent of all kind.

He sniffed at his men,
Knowing how poor they were,
All the while with public eyes on his shoulder.

One by one he killed men’s dreams,
One by one he felt conquered,
And one by one,
He pushed himself to the cliff a foot far away.

Then — more the boss isolated and trapped in his fantasy—
That the boss himself rules the world,
That the boss himself has the world.

It was a lovely, sunny day
When thy boss faced the fact.
It was a lovely sunny day,
When the boss knew it was too late.

The boss had the world by then,
The boss also had a coffee on his hand.
Pulled by his old friend just as himself,
But now … what now?
What does he have?
His fame? His pretending friends?

Nothing, was all he had.
Cigar was the only bud he kept,
Streets are now where his office is to be.

Now he is an old wrinkled sweeper
On 978 Johnsons Avenue
all the way through the Poltz Bridge.
Where lots of thoughts comes and goes.

He now looks upon his men in past,
Knowing how rude he was.
With public eyes sympathizing him,
Sympathizing, but no more, no less.

One by one he sweeps the streets,
One by one he tells the sweepers,
How he used to be.
But one by one,
The sweepers tell him to get lost.

But still he is a sweeper on street,
He no longer rules the world.
He no longer has the world,
He no longer is boss of the world.
And he no longer has the coffee on his hand.