BUSTING IN THE
I knew her everlasting, before the
glass-key broke. Like Cinderella
with that slipper, or whatever that
story is. A shady raft of characters
those creepy sisters were.
At first it starts out easy, and no
one knows a thing. For boys, anyway.
Then it becomes pretty obvious what's
going on. A Satanic reminder each
morning. Oh well, what's one to do?
I always wanted to say, 'Oh well,
what's one two three?' Useless.
Tough life, this is. Most guys, as
thugs and hoodlums, just never get
it right. I guess the ones that do, like
Al Capone or Bugs Moran, they
become, instantly, legendary tales.
All their own and holding it too.
Then the gun-moll, or the creepy
girl climbs, on the running board.
'My Bonnie to your Clyde, OK?'
'Well, yeah then, but I hope you're
here for more than the ride.' Then,
to the crested butte that is their
end, they ride off madly, again
and again, for all eternity.