Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.
Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.
Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away
in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars
under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,
a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.
One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,
a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.
He’s proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.
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