Mr. B Poem by ArmourQuill Hunter

Hello, Mr. B
You may not know me
Here’s me wanting to give you a chance
If business is your cup of tea, there might be romance

There’s no beating around the bush, though at times I rap
I’ve fallen into your grove and stepped into your Map
I'm a representative of His Majesty’s estate
My Manager (and King) does abolish hell’s gate

Could you tell me of your land, dear Mr. B of Birmingham
What’s it like in the “Magic City, ' borrowed from England
How does a state maintain a decline in violence each year
How does one maintain a balance industry, lessening fear

I’d be honored if you’d take me to the Jazz Hall of Fame
Mr. B, of His Promised Land, Nat Cole was best in that game
Hearing of your City-Stages, and picture Festivals, how grand
My Dad’s making the arrangements for me to come to your land

I know you’re busy with gardens, streams, and the city’s lake
Thanks for your birds-eye view to avoid ones that are fake
Strange, but I saw your Water-park in a vision-like-dream
Visionland, is that what you're call? Now I'm really keen

Wow, I never knew so many songs were written about you
My favorite, perhaps, is: 'You are my rock-a-by Baby Sue.'
Well, got to run; but I'll look forward to seeing you soon
Save a spot in your Hall of Fame, Love’s best under the moon