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"Buffalo Bill's by e.e. cummings:pre:Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
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Nov 16, 2013 06:49
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| # ¿ May 11, 2024 11:50 |
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Wallace Stevens posted:Call the roller of big cigars,
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Nov 16, 2013 06:52
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Apparently Bonnie Parker (of Bonnie & Clyde) wrote some poems. Here's "The Story of Bonnie & Clyde" pre:You've read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died;
If you're still in need
Of something to read,
Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.
Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang,
I'm sure you all have read
How they rob and steal
And those who squeal
Are usually found dying or dead.
There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;
They're not so ruthless as that;
Their nature is raw;
They hate all the law
The stool pigeons, spotters, and rats.
They call them cold-blooded killers;
They say they are heartless and mean;
But I say this with pride,
That I once knew Clyde
When he was honest and upright and clean.
But the laws fooled around,
Kept taking him down
And locking him up in a cell,
Till he said to me,
"I'll never be free,
So I'll meet a few of them in hell."
The road was so dimly lighted;
There were no highway signs to guide;
But they made up their minds
If all roads were blind,
They wouldn't give up till they died.
The road gets dimmer and dimmer;
Sometimes you can hardly see;
But it's fight, man to man,
And do all you can,
For they know they can never be free.
From heart-break some people have suffered;
From weariness some people have died;
But take it all in all,
Our troubles are small
Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.
If a policeman is killed in Dallas,
And they have no clue or guide;
If they can't find a fiend,
They just wipe their slate clean
And hand it on Bonnie and Clyde.
There's two crimes committed in America
Not accredited to the Barrow mob;
They had no hand
In the kidnap demand,
Nor the Kansas City depot job.
A newsboy once said to his buddy;
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped;
In these awful hard times
We'd make a few dimes
If five or six cops would get bumped."
The police haven't got the report yet,
But Clyde called me up today;
He said, "Don't start any fights
We aren't working nights
We're joining the NRA."
From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
Is known as the Great Divide,
Where the women are kin,
And the men are men,
And they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde.
If they try to act like citizens
And rent them a nice little flat,
About the third night
They're invited to fight
By a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat.
They don't think they're too tough or desperate,
They know that the law always wins;
They've been shot at before,
But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.
Some day they'll go down together;
And they'll bury them side by side;
To few it'll be grief
To the law a relief
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.
pre:We each of us have a good "alibi" For being down here in the "joint"; But few of them really are justified If you get right down to the point. You've heard of a woman's "glory" Being spent on a "downright cur," Still you can't always judge the story As true, being told by her. As long as I've stayed on this "island," And heard "confidence tales" from each "gal," Only one seemed interesting and truthful -- The story of "Suicide Sal." Now "Sal" was a gal of rare beauty, Though her features were coarse and tough; She never once faltered from duty To play on the "up and up." "Sal" told me this tale on the evening Before she was turned out "free," And I'll do my best to relate it Just as she told it to me: I was born on a ranch in Wyoming; Not treated like Helen of Troy; I was taught that "rods were rulers" And "ranked" as a greasy cowboy." Then I left my old home for the city To play in its mad dizzy whirl, Not knowing how little of pity It holds for a country girl. There I fell for "the line" of a "henchman," A "professional killer" from "Chi"; I couldn't help loving him madly; For him even now I would die. One year we were desperately happy; Our "ill gotten gains" we spent free; I was taught the ways of the "underworld"; Jack was just like a "god" to me. I got on the "F.B.A." payroll To get the "inside lay" of the "job"; The bank was "turning big money"! It looked like a "cinch" for the "mob." Eighty grand without even a "rumble" -- Jack was last with the "loot" in the door, When the "teller" dead-aimed a revolver From where they forced him to lie on the floor. I knew I had only a moment -- He would surely get Jack as he ran; So I "staged" a "big fade out" beside him And knocked the forty-five out of his hand. They "rapped me down big" at the station, And informed me that I'd get the blame For the "dramatic stunt" pulled on the "teller" Looked to them too much like a "game." The "police" called it a "frame-up," Said it was an "inside job," But I steadily denied any knowledge Or dealings with "underworld mobs." The "gang" hired a couple of lawyers, The best "fixers" in any man's town, But it takes more than lawyers and money When Uncle Sam starts "shaking you down." I was charged as a "scion of gangland" And tried for my wages of sin; The "dirty dozen" found me guilty -- From five to fifty years in the pen. I took the "rap" like good people, And never one "squawk" did I make. Jake "dropped himself" on the promise That we make a "sensational break." Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story, Five years have gone over my head Without even so much as a letter-- At first I thought he was dead. But not long ago I discovered From a gal in the joint named Lyle, That Jack and his "moll" had "got over" And were living in true "gangster style." If he had returned to me sometime, Though he hadn't a cent to give, I'd forget all this hell that he's caused me, And love him as long as I live. But there's no chance of his ever coming, For he and his moll have no fears But that I will die in this prison, Or "flatten" this fifty years. Tomorrow I'll be on the "outside" And I'll "drop myself" on it today; I'll "bump 'em" if they give me the "hotsquat" On this island out here in the bay... The iron doors swung wide next morning For a gruesome woman of waste, Who at last had a chance to "fix it," Murder showed in her cynical face. Not long ago I read in the paper That a gal on the East Side got "hot," And when the smoke finally retreated Two of gangdom were found "on the spot." It related the colorful story of a "jilted gangster gal." Two days later, a "sub-gun" ended The story of "Suicide Sal."
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Dec 1, 2013 02:24
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