His walkie-talkie sneezes
And coughs as he goes by,
And something short and horrible
He spits out in reply.
He’s a cross between a cowboy
And a moody astronaut,
Scowling from his fish bowl
(He’s not the smiling sort).
He’s among the meanest movers
Down any city street,
With a 1000-c.c. dragon
Snarling at hands and feet.
With a roar of rage he throttles.
The rubber grips and bites
And nearly knocks your knees off
When lunging from the lights.
He slouches into offices
And slams the package down.
Can you think of anything
To make him smile, not frown?