Punk Sandwich

there he is walking down the street
slicked back hair and a thin mustache
high rise collar on his button down shirt
sparkle in his eye and always talkin trash

he loved his Italian beef on pumpernickel rye
he loved his mama and his brothers too
he wasn't your ordinary everyday punk
there was so much more and you knew he knew

fear for him does not exist or so he claims
quicker than a bolting flash of light
behind you with a jagged edge of blade
he is no one to challenge to a fight

he has connections to all the right ones
the ones you need to know for security
or to make some annoyance disappear
his word is golden shinning with a purity

a perfect friend intelligent courteous and brave
but these can all change to weapons of death
if you are so disposed to challenge his way
it just might be your very last breath

after dropping you in a pool of disguise
he will tip his fedora with playful grace
back on his brow and cigarillo between his lips
and that same old smirk upon his face
  
Gomer LePoet...

i say:
writers
have the last words,
until the editors
**** them up.