Hey, Mister, are you the banana man?
Delivering bananas every weekday morn?
You’ve been on this route to nowhere,
For going on twenty three years.

I remember your trip
To Lake Erie,
A Great Lake three hours away.
You’re not like your friends
In Fredericktown,
Who have never left home
For a single day.

I see you at church
On Sunday mornings,
With your family of banana lambs,
You’ve got mighty big dreams
 For the future,
When you’ll bring hope
To this broken land.

You told me that you’re going to be
The President.
You’re just waiting until
The time is right.
You’ve got a special understanding
Of what this country needs,
Secrets considered while polishing bananas,
Late into the Fredericktown night.

Or maybe you’ll be a Still Life painter;
Still life is what you really know,
If it wasn’t for that three hour sojourn,
You’d be content at the picture window,
Watching your still life grow.

I look on while you put your life in motion,
Similar patterns on different days,
The dreams in your head
Are emblazoned in your eyes,
Impressions beneath a thick coat of glaze.

It makes me sad to see you, Banana Man,
As I follow,
A safe distance behind.
The song you sing is a monotone,
Your movement slower,
Along with your hopes;
Still life in shades of gray.

Even you don’t believe your lies anymore,
But you still tell them
Just the same,
A sad figure laid low by failure,
No longer able to bear the shame.
And so you spend your nights in solitude,
No observers of your internal pain,
And you quietly polish your bananas,
And look for somebody to blame.