THE PISTOLERO
Ambivalent crows angle
into the sky
and through the low fog
strides the man
they call Pistolero.
The Pistolero decisively assassinates
illegal handicap parkers
and telephone solicitors
who call during supper.
Bandoliers of birdshot
swing extravagantly across
a chartreuse pullover.
Sleeveless, of course.
Several fatal flaws apply
like a penchant for chaw
embalmed in cyanide
and a desire to slow dance
whenever Hendrix is played.
He is, however, seemingly impervious
to large black cigars
the stubs of which are swallowed
a full minute before burning out.
A vigilante who will undoubtedly
expire of rat poisoning
or gyrating slowly
in a fierce gun battle.
But when the fog seeps in
and a little red rooster crows,
beware oh scourges of decent behavior
for The Pistolero draws near.
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