One tip, two tip, three tip, four:
I can tell by the way you open the door
to your coastal mansion, with the Porsche in the driveway,
you’ll take your pizza pie, then turn me away.
With empty hands and empty pockets to match:
Did I say something wrong? Or was it my mustache?
Or perhaps my cologne, of pizza dough and desperation
(with a hint of Italian sausage and sexual frustration)?

I’ll wave to the gate guard on my way out
and shoot him a look, to show him I know all about
how it is to be so close, yet so far away
from wanton wealth every single day.
It don’t bother me much, when I think of the price:
the mindless boredom, credit card bills, and housewifean vice
(the best tips come from rusted trophy wives with prescription pill peepers,
though they sometimes want more than pizza, but I ain’t no creeper).
I’m just your Pizza Pie Picaro, out for a stroll.
Tip me or don’t–my day job’s rock ‘n’ roll.