The profit never spoke

The prophet never spoke…

Picked up his pen to late,
did not no if he could wait
Starts writing down his thoughts,
like dreams and playing astronauts
Thinking sometimes drove him wild,
other times just like the child.
Many is the time these words he’d find,
left all stations of his mind
Rushing forward no backward step,
not prepared to accept.

They could be of another time.

He sat across from Ernest Jones,
not hearing voices cars or phones
Andre smiles from corner pose,
all the time his profit grows.
Cannot say it was his fault,
Gucci sure designed the vault.

You can’t sell pennies to prophet,
he knows the price of fame.
You can’t ever understand him,
else he plays a different game.