Yellow shirt donned. Sunday proud.
Loved by the broken. Adored by the crowds.
The fastest man ever on two wheels,
A perfect medley of blood, sweat, and steel.
But in the darkened rooms, fueled by ego fire:
The spent syringe, the elaborate lie.
Gray suit donned. Wall Street King.
Good Earth hanging by a string.
Developed a ruse, a shady plan,
With money six steps removed from the man.
And what do we get after living through that scare?
A wagging finger and hands in the air.
Look at me. A bright eyed lad.
But I drop to pieces at the fall of a hat.
I’ll mull for days. My head will spin.
A stone cross shoulder, if only imagined.
If I trespass against you, or wrong you in any way,
The Golden Rule’s still the measure of my days.