So if you like, I'll read you the little poem I wrote because it kind of sums him up.

Is this what you wrote this to?

I wrote it.

No, I wrote it for his 50th birthday and I stood on the stairs and read this to him.

Mira-mera on the wall.

Am I still able to enthrall the people whom I daily call?

And is my butt still cute and small?

So now I guess you like a little tight ass, huh?

Your body is so finely oiled and all your muscles are keenly coiled.

There is no way you will be foiled or any of your brilliance spoiled.

I'm not trying to just blow smoke.

He saved a lot of people's lives.

Oh, Mira-mera, tell me true.

Do not give a distorted view of what I am able still to do.

It didn't make any sense.

It was like someone that was so consistent for so long, all of a sudden just just stop showing up.

It's like above most men, you're always tower with life force pulsing strong each hour.

Who called the police?

It is a long story.

Of exercise, you're never sour.

Something has to be really wrong if you all of a sudden just stop showing up.

You're like a five-year-old with power.

...