Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, September 13, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses

The headlights splintered pale color through rustic horns
Hitman grimaces, knowing the figure outside the car won't come aboard
Black Chevy funnels forth - tornado of intestines, stomach gored
Contracted matador reflecting on what this client muttered, coarse
"Five grand up front... expect hundreds more"
It was hard to refuse Benjamin Franklin faces pasted in deluxe decor
in exchange for organized sirloin steak basted in the blood that poured
"All you gotta to do is hit the pedal," said this pilgrim in the market
Trenchcoat villain but a target, self loathing, sitting like an artist
On a Jeremiah Bar bench, eyes glittering like roaring twenties harlots
Gentlemanly carcass, mob assassin, too gritty to be harmless
in a city of the heartless where too many carried pistols to be guarded
brown dirt speckled with human fluids - mixture of cinnamon and scarlet
Tom had a talent for the tommygun when Thomasville was at it's darkest
Mediocre Gatsby, in the land of the cheap bastards
Trained phantom, a heat packer; with the stained hands of a meat packer
And just as trains trampled the weak stragglers...
Eventually the brand of guilt & pain stamped him, even weeks after
Free agent, bar hopper, car hotel sleeper, a hostile, sinister lad
under Hell's Kitchen he'd tread skeletons in the closets he didn't have
In his days after school he was a youthful apprentice
The son of a dairy farmer had inherited a ruthless profession
To get paid to kill someone in a few little seconds was rewarding at first
Made a fortune ending the life of a prison warden then a Mormon in church
It was like grotesque puberty - their wounds boasted horrible spurts
By the storefronts he'd lurk, prototypical businessman image
but a lord of his turf. At least until he was slaughtered, the works.
Though the lawmen had searched, no police-sane-man could find him
Investigators with flashlight glasses invaded the wasteland of silence
Looking for the devil in the details with archangel magnification
Isolating his dysfunctional brainchild; dark cradle stashed in the basement
A glass of Schapps in his grasp, he was patient, at his favorite spot
Collecting his thoughts, reminiscing on all those days jaded at the bar
Forsaken quasars drifted on this rainy night, cold rendition of memories
With no mercy left in his veins, this remained the prohibition of empathy
It was a cramped environment, the lamps had shined dim,
Smokin' Joe Teflon made brief eye contact with a man beside him
Two night sentinels who'd kill over some prized emeralds
The two hitman wore anonymous disguises that were almost identical
One man passed the other an object across the bar from his pedestal
"Here's my business card," he said, but it had no name on it
Just a pair of bull horns. The two made negotiations, then drank on it
"How much?" one asked, hoping to make some bank of it
"Five grand up front... expect hundreds more,"
His conscience became at ease, his hands steady when the cash was paid
The two men walked out of the bar towards a Chevy in the alleyway
Then the headlights flashed on and the tires began to screech
and the bullhorns that were fastened onto the grill of the car began to reach

In : Rhymed Verses 

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