This goes out to my homeboy Mike.

Trooth: True? It's damn true.

A tint of jaundice
An edge of camp
A lisp, dimples,
Kicking a wiggle in his stride
Loosened up, fooling around
Truth- he's gonna be alright
I'm sure glad he's on our side

Because he's truth, damn true
Only standing on the shore
He's got some friends but wants more
He's pretty much right in everything he says
Plays iTunes and enjoys cold beer

There's hope for the future implicit to the shape of his hand
Nostalgia and mired compromise swirling over the sand
A complex spiral, swinging his cylindrical
Plays sax on weekends and jams with the best of them

Truth, aces high
He looks so fine
Tight pants (black jeans) and curly hair
A lined face, all content and no action
Bouncing off the walls
He sparkles, he fizzes
He does backflips and breaks the furniture
He's a lucky guy