THE BREATH OF A SALESMAN

The sales staff tradition was a noon time thing.
based on weekly sales totals decided who was paying.

George was surely just the best, his passion and his hope,
quite an able salesman, he could sell condoms to the pope.

Phil had served his customers for nearly twenty years
soon to be retired, Phil would be changing gears.

But Willie was the low man, his acumen not good,
he couldn’t sell to go to hell (most times he wished he could)

Willie knew a restaurant, the cheapest he could find,
the quaintest little pizza joint, he was sure they wouldn’t mind.

The sauce was rather rancid; it almost made them sick,
and on that day they walked away smelling like garlic.

The customers would hold their noses; they didn’t buy a bit
and Willie didn’t blame them, their breaths all smelled like… garlic!

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY – Day 27 Salesman

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