Saps, we don’t need ‘em. Bambi-eyed dames
sparklin’ in glad rags mama pirouetted in, bell
bottoms & daddies sweatin’ for their hands:
fuck ‘em. We don’t have enough jack for joe,
& you can keep your God ‘less he stands tonight
on its head long as the tassels spin crazy, hell!
Round up the alleycats, the bearcats purrin’
on streetcorners all lipsticked: better if they’re
on the lam than on the level when the bubbly
starts washin’ up our way, I say. Round ‘em up,
kid− I mean pushahs, pack-vandals & punks
up with the moon, shiv-shaved bimbos,
yeah, doll-faced molls that do cash or nothin’.
Clear the floor out for the boys: we’ll dry up
by mornin’ when the hooch does, you betcha,
but goddammit, you know we’re gonna swing.

Amen! Preach, brother!

Yeah— fuck 'em

Greta slice, O

Dax

Love your re-BUK.

Keep it up.

I love the way you sling the slang.

Rick

Well slung, well hung.

milner