Pulls up in his Porsche forty-minutes after close,
parking lot is empty but cool dude refused to go.
Meaning of store hours Porsche cannot comprehend;
middle-aged and wealthy with a lot of dough to spend.
Doesn’t take a genius to know that the store is closed;
ambles to our plate-glass with an ego grandiose.
Store hours emblazoned in a font that’s big and bold
Porsche’s self-absorption is a wonder to behold.
Labor in a corner, staying late to get work done,
all alone and tired I observe anointed one.
Have zero intention caving to fatuous fool,
my fuel tank is empty, and I cannot be cajoled.
Nose pressed against the glass, raises hands to shield his eyes
waiting to hear his knock and his actions don’t surprise.
He’s rapping on the glass, I keep my eyes on my work
not sure if he sees me, just know I’m tired and irked.
Life blood is customers and I love to treat them right
but I’ve reached my limit, won’t let Porsche in tonight.
I’ve been robbed at gunpoint and I don’t care how you’re dressed
solo, after hours? We’re closed. There’ll be no trespass.
Arrive at closing time and I’ll beam a heartfelt smile,
give you full attention, guide you through our maze of aisles.
Rules are pretty simple and far from Draconian;
Porsche’s rather crappy for pounding to be let in.
Plebeian the concept that any should bar the gate:
Store hours barrier to man of such wealth and taste?
Go in peace, Porsche man and please return to our store
during working hours and your presence I’ll adore.