He likes Suzanne Vega rhyming and Cedar Walton timing, he drinks coffee in the morn, breakfast blend, just now born; he grows hair upon his face, with a lion’s manely grace, and talks with hands upon his hips, discussing dreamed of trips; tips generously, he does, loves all nurses just because; sometimes happy, sometimes sad, all injustice makes him mad, goes on walks which fit the bill, mostly sidewalks, up his hill; he eats cupcakes for the taste, thinks most diets are a waste, lives to read and poem, now calls San Diego home; just an ordinary guy, not too boastful, seldom shy, he makes casseroles for dinner, not much caring about thinner; he’s been leader of his troops, the umami in the soups, foreign films get a look, he enjoys a good book; loves tall trees, names his birds, sings the oldies, have you heard? He likes Bob Dylan rhyming and Marcel Marceau miming, doesn’t care to be well-dressed, but he knows that he is blessed; that’s him, the real deal, your good friend, Teo Leo.
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