Yokels Lured to Yonker's Asylum
Testosteroned 32 year-old’s court receivership asskicking after my Greater Good
actions invited a lawsuit -- run off a country road by plaintiff goons -- my own hooligans
assure no knives/ Glocks packed or bugs/wires on our boardroom’s telltale secure lines.
My bodyman makes damn sure I’m not mugged in the civic center can occupied
off-hours by fire station groupies who rendezvous there with their hook-‘n-ladder
johns’ mullets which are all business in front but all bring-it-on party in back.
After we won and kept dominion over our clinic and jobs, a friendly local druggist
sent a picture postcard, “Ain’t seen you in church. When you’re back from Hoboken
(Doc Williams, don’t you worry, no one else knows about your apartment there),
please pay a visit to the yokels in the decrepit stinking cabin right outside town.
Their neighbors a football field away complain, have been badgering the sheriff
last coupla weeks.”... From Big-Sister-In-Charge, “Dad cheated, wandered,
put everything back onto me. His barmates knew how to show a girl a good time
but gave me filthy diseases. Not wanting to be no martyr or pervert, I’ll lay it
200% on you. But don’t expect to get paid or nothin’.” Fresh as lead paint,
can’t fake desperation, she swaddled a baby the size of a half loaf of bread.
Cheeks and nose smudged with impetigo, the adolescent hacks hunks of lung.
At this rate with a $100 of luck, bunch of kids might grow up to become pudding-
faced garbage hustlers or briefly expensive two-timed whores. I entice the children
out the door, through the slush and trash, into my Oldsmobile before the alternator
finally turned over and we went bonkers on our way toward a safe Jersey haven.
William Carlos Williams -- Lisa Larsen