What's With the Busy?

Twas the cool of the evening and he asked to see,
I daubed on some make-up thought maybe for tea.
I stood by the mirror waiting for his call,
But seconds to minutes did he think me a doll?
Finally he called and said "sorry I'm busy"
I could've killed him but no, that'd be so easy.
Nothing like leisure it's all about work
What then is his pleasure? His life is just stark.
Office, books, files, mails,
Parks, beaches, cafe's, malls,
They all one a part of each other
They'd pull you together and keep you in order
Now when next I see him, I might just play busy
This Jack can't be dull I'd make him play, easy.