Sharply dressed in their finest duds,
The night-life awaits these young studs.
As they walk the streets of thunder,
Prepared to tear this town 'sunder.

Clint, Flint, and the top-hatted Gent,
The trio terrific struts in Kent's
Ordering their usual brew,
An air of trouble starts to stew.

Ed, Fred, and Mr. Lead-Head Ted
Decked out in ratty, torn thread,
Decide to make their presence known.
Clint, shaking his head, can just groan

Ted grunts to the bartender, "Three!"
Fred glares hard, expecting no fee.
Ed stares blankly, always quite slow.
The barkeep stammers out a no.

The brute's eyes widen, surprise clear.
In a second, his features sneer.
He barks out his demands once more.
The fool stands his ground, finger to door.

The thugs rise from their seats, laughing.
They smirk and they scoff, still clapping.
"Oh, really" they say, all with grins.
They circle like sharks, suits like fins.

Before things can get any worse,
And 'fore they have to call a nurse,
Clint, Flint, and the top-hatted Gent
Decide to make then their ascent.

The trios all **** heads, jawing.
The bar senses a brawl gnawing.
All it takes is just one thrown fist,
One clenched fist to make a face kissed

Hours pass, and much blood does spill.
The trio fights, through force of will.
Soon enough a winner is called,
And Fred, Ed, and Ted lay out sprawled.

The crowd claps and cheers for the three,
Clint, Flint, and the Gent, all marquee.
The barkeep smiles, handing their bill.
They groan, before drinking their fill.