Limey for Grimey

Sir, you don’t need to call.
Here I am… your fingerbowl.
Tell me what stuck to your head
As you worked the table-spread…
Until the day was dead.

Recount the morning jam
With the marketing redhead,
And how you two broke bread.
How went the conference with the corner man?
You cooked his books but were left
Without oily shares in the pan…

May I offer warm words spiced,
Guaranteed to soothe conscientious strife?…
Or loosen the tie,
Heat the pork pie?
I play all these roles,
Ignoring damn toes and soles.

Sir, you don’t need to call.
Here I am… your fingerbowl.

– Bolbul