I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.