Steve Brodie walked straight up to me.
“Sez you, sez me.”
Boasts a beer with a dime to the bar ---
tall stories of knuckles first
into the East River off the Brooklyn
Bridge. “I’m the only t’live.”
He’ll sail through air now until he
dies. His bowler and plaids.
“I know a green goods chap,”
he says pointing to his new
bow tie. “Fat jobs for bums
don’t wanna work.” “T’first
thing you do iz.” Sez you,
sez me. And Coxey and his men
won’t win a cent. March on D.C.,
get their heads kicked in.

copyright,  © 2007 Eric Reymond