Slightly aloof but gregarious and warm,
A belly-born laugh that takes you by storm.
Thick suspenders with a skinny black tie,
Beneath his brim he winks a blue eye.
His handshake is firm while his hands are rough,
Of that southern drawl you can’t get enough.
This slow-flowin’ fellow is no high roller,
He’s just a chap with a pipe and a bowler.
Up in the sky, above the clouds,
The wind is whispering wonders aloud.
Earth below so green, and sky so blue,
Sunbeams are bursting, pouring through.
Aloft and drifting, ever away,
The breeze is the pilot leading the way.
Not jet nor zephyr, not blimp nor moon,
But a colorful, cheerful hot-air balloon.
Spinning around, slow but steady,
Waiting for no one to set or ready.
Splattered with jungles, both exotic and lush,
And even some concrete with late-hour rush.
Peoples and cultures, phrases and foods,
Those tropics among the latitudes.
Exploring the canvas, a worldwide probe:
The bowler, by balloon, floats the globe.