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It will all be okay when he's around.
'Cause he's five feet fucking eleven tall
and monstrously huge in his looming stroll
- the closer he gets, people lose their minds
because how can one man so god damn monstrous
be contained by the visual cortex? And they make way,

because they know now he's here, it's fine.
Whatever way he goes is his - best
to get out of it, on principle.
His intimidating presence
reassures all.

They know what he says
has pretty much already come to pass,
or it might as well,
and he says: "It will all be okay."

Imagine if somebody pissed him off.
Ho-lee shit. He might flex his burly extent, flick
his baleful gaze, mournfully
upon them and mumble one or two
of his two or three pet threats: "If you say

that again I will take your BALLS
and tuck them into your asshole," or,
"I'm about to pull your head off
and go bowling with it." From how everyone dives

for cover and averts horrified eyes, dipshit who dared
knows he fucked upwardly, and must needs consider a swift
retirement from the field.

Nobody can believe that guy.
Who messes with the king of the place?
His gigantic tyranny's security's ensured
by the mere enormous menace of his presence alone,
since everybody knows it's in no one's best interest.

He wills ill to no one, but
he brooks no rivers
nor trucks with truculence. Nevertheless one time even,
he suffered a fool eternally. Everybody was like
"what the hell?" but we had to admit, it was
the craziest thing we saw all day.

For the most part though, his sweet temper
is second only to the threatening presence
he can't help, being terrifyingly gigantic. People claiming

well above six foot

look up to him considerably,
so what that let you know. Man's huge,
and his rule is "Don't start none,
won't be none." When he's around,

that goes without saying or else.
But people can tell, ultimately.

It's all okay, or it's gonna be.