He carries round his window cleaning gear
whistling some well known bohemian air,
wears gold earrings, (street cred' is now so dear)
and runs up his ladders like bedroom stairs.

Tanned and sleek, full of self-confident wealth,
he growls, '' you're next !"  (in hope to hear a purr?)
rippling muscles, bouncing around with health,
with a chest full of lush, gorilla, fur...

He cleans windows like an athletic cat
stalks those streets, an animal on the hunt,
but I know the repertoire, all the chat,
and the ****** way he says '' back'n front ? ''

'' Shall I do your inside's, there's not a spot missed? ''
As I'm paying him I think, '' Yeah... as if! ''