I rise at noon, in a silk dressing gown,
With a furrowed brow and a faint dramatic frown.
I survey the world through a monocle of taste,
Making order from noise, putting art in its place…

And if you should ask me, late over champagne,
What it is I do… why, I’ll not explain—

I’ll just smile and say…
🎶 “I’m a producer, dharling…
We don’t make the art…
We curate the chaos.”
(Piano swells lightly, clarinet giggles)

I’ve soundtracked dreams, set your nightmares to verse,
Plucked beauty from mess—for better or worse.
I’ve directed the wind, choreographed the rain,
And politely declined all offers to explain…

Some build the cathedral, stone by stony stone,
But I’d rather arrange how the light is then shown…
Some sing their own aria, raw and divine,
I just make certain it’s heard… with a twist and a line…

So raise your glass to the…
“Producer, dharling…
We don’t make the art…
We curate the chaaaaos…”

…Now do be a darling and pass the olives.

