Who is Jimmy Cinnabon, I hear you say,
A whisper in the air, a name at play.
Is he a myth, a man, a fleeting guise?
A swirl of questions, like Iowa skies.
Does he rise at dawn, at a Michigan lake,
Folding stories in the dough he makes?
Perhaps he crafts sweetness, a life in a bun,
With sugar and spice spun under the sun.
Or is he a wanderer, bound to no place,
A poet, a dreamer, lost in the chase?
Carving his hawkeye like a pastry's swirl,
Through the chaos of life, through the endless whirl.
Is he a rebel, a fighter, a wolverine?
A light in the shadows, a flame in the dark?
Or maybe he's quiet, a soft-spoken muse,
An welcher of flavor, with magic to use.
We wonder, we question, we guess who he cheers,
Yet Jimmy remains an enigma to see.
For perhaps he's not one, but all we aspire,
A name that ignites our hidden desire.
So who is Jimmy Cinnabon? Do you know?
A keeper of bets, a shadowy glow.
Or maybe he’s none of these—just a name,
A sweet little mystery, delightfully plain.