I’m a corporate citizen, everything I do is measured and correct. An appropriate denizen with all the right the contact and connect, but—some days I’d like to bust up in here, sportin’ a blood red suit and pointy toe shoes, with a pimp hat that’d make Iceberg Slim proud and give all these stunned straight laces the blues, please excuse me, but I was I thinking out loud? I’ve got correct pedigrees from the most snobbish, supercilious ivy halls, old parchment and filigree all suitably framed line my I love me walls, but—just once I’d like to jump on the boardroom table and do the “Funky Dog” and the nasty “Tootsie Roll” and grab my crotch in my hand and strut like I am able just to bug their pious eyes, drop their jaws to the floor. Excuse me, was I rambling? swinging out from the constrictive corporate scheme or was I just there out ambling, rumbling, bumbling, stumbling making another scene? Please excuse me for my ignorance of corporate etiquette You see, graffiti street signs still make me feel proud reminds me plentiful perks and premiums don’t pay the debt I owe to others and that’s why I be thinking out loud.