is what he’s all about.
Struttin’ his stuff,
twirlin’ his gentleman’s cane
tippin’ his top hat
to all the neighbors, seniors
and children jumping rope in the blazin’ heat.
Doesn’t matter to him
– they’d roast his nuts
but he’d still rescue
Hell, they’d even name
after our hero
worshiped by movie goers everywhere
in his honor.
Yet, on one dusky evening,
a new crew invaded the hood,
eyed the one of distinction
knocked off his lid with a baseball bat
kicked his walking stick to the curb
and slapped his eye-piece to the sewer grid.
Before their belly laughs died
the over-sized, crazy eight shaped victim
jumped in the air, kicked two gang bangers
in the throat, before landing on another’s feet
crushing toes, breaking ankles.
Limping back to the expensive ride,
the leader pulled out a .32 snub-nose,
shooting the bulbous one in the ribs,
propelling him to the stoop.
Draggin’ his right leg, the leader of the pack
clicked the gun. “Adios, freak!”
but fell to the steps with a groin kick
Jackie Chan would be proud of.
Top hat, monocle, and black stick retrieved,
the urban myth walked towards the sunset
before saying, “You don’t mess around
with Mr. Peanut, Slim.”