BUT HE WAS A FINE POET





Sure, he liked the tattoos he got

when he ran with the 1%’s



and he liked burning a bowl before

the stockholders meeting, the presenter



puzzled by the sudden chuckles

floating above the sea of Parker Brothers



suits, silk ties, nightmares of the world

crashing silently among the others



He drank a little wine

some say a little too much



but by damn it was good wine

And it wasn’t so much his touch



with the cue stick that made his name

but the beauty of his bank shots



as the balls danced their gavotte

and whether he made the shot or not



his opponent bought the drinks regardless

Ok, maybe he chased the ladies



and his indiscretions were as dramatic

and fatal like some STD malaises’



Money was not his friend

he went through it like shit goes through birds



and he was depressed and mal-adjusted

and treated people like smelly turds



But he was a fine poet, he ran deep

He brought us all on his journey



So what if he couldn’t sleep

‘till laid out on a steel gurney