Summer day. Smoke clears away. The firefighters win
Blackjack helped to save some lives, to sponge away his sin.
Left smoky cash and boldly dashed into the fiery fray
His suit is Zoot, covered with soot, sure has seen better days.
Hickman quickly lawyers up, sans any gratitude
Tracy slaps the bracelets on, frowns at his attitude.
Hickman sees himself aloof, above all regulations
Eats his slice and takes yours too, shrugs at all depravations.
Blackjack he smiles through the tears to see Tracy approves
Not all bad, though slightly mad, such obsession surely proves
Models set upon the shelf and Sparkle dolls and drinks
Evidence of stilted love that ripens, rots and stinks.
Still, Blackjack’s no embezzler. It’s Hickman who’s the bum
Hand deep in the cookie jar, he must think that we’re dumb.
He’d drop a torch on anything, then soundly sleep on silk
Take from the poor to aid the rich. Familiar is his ilk.
July 27, 2017
September 11, 2017
October 25, 2017