I am an exec of cold stare,
Inner ice believes in the old tears;
When it coldly stammers
We convince the authorities
Of exercises solidly in the thoughts.
I am an exec of an office,
My land is yours in this company.
I call it godly as the whistle is
Selling sound of the whole quest
Like the talkers we describe.
The mute man is an official,
He carries currency from the fastest
Men on the planet, a look of polite
Health penalises the major questions,
And let the capitalist be a chief.
My iron is a tree of the offensive fading,
Away the odour strikes the belt,
So sound steals the mildewy halls,
Of an executive of the highest health,
A man of fervour in the terms of youth.