Wolf In Sheep's Clothing
Flaunting his fleece dressed to kill slowly,
I guess you could call him a wolf in sheeps clothing.
Midnight searsucker suit under a sheepskin full moon on the shadow,
a face scarred by a certain sharp deal in that designer thrift shop number,
a senator a statesman or a shark & smiling candy sweet,
that glint in his eye like a pimp and if so inclined vote worthy too.
From Brooklyn to Britain,
Moscow to Bonn,
sizing up arms deals in the back of a bar,
from hotels to motels from Kansas to Perth, popcorn hard porn, Donner & Blitzen
A sweaty palm greeting for kings & hookers while counting,
the slums with a real estate vision,
caring not in him it's not his style,
it's home to the wife with the smile of a child.
In speeches his words carry a lot of weight,
like a man in insurance who beats up his date,
no plans for the future no thought of the past,
life's in his pocket he knows it won't last,
what a story he can tell,
whatever you want he's ready to sell a worm in a three piece in search of a fleece,
I guess you can call him a wolf in sheeps clothing.
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