Now that one last dude has shot
His wad of nickels into the belly of the beast
And cleared out just before closing time, in comes
That upstairs Greek immigrant tenement urchin who starts
Biting the dust under the row of abandoned pinball machines.
He knows if he hangs in there and keeps
A sharp eye out for any strays, the understanding
Irish lady of the saloon will once again look
The other way and let him pocket
One more buffalo head or two, surely
A good day’s killing for the likes
Of the both of them.