In Memory of the Bullet that Saved Tom Follis' Life - That Lucky Bastard

Tom’s basement had that certain hook, in the day.  And the gangs and their goons
Would wrap round his couch and empty their pockets and
spill out their bags onto the coffee table
like marbles. 

Their bags…
That’s all they ever had, really.
Well, besides an empty box of squallies,
A half pair a lungs - if they were lucky -
A fresh floozy with teeth and two boobs
And Tom’s basement
And maybe a story, too.

But only ones that they don’t all like to tell
And we don’t all like to hear.

Man, its funny too
Cause now I walk down the street and I
Listen to a bum beg for change from a man
With khaki, pleated pants.

And I remember -
Before he sank that last shot to rest
Into the rotted holes in his brain -
Tom Follis.  Tom Follis and his goons and
Their bags…
That’s all they ever had, really.
But even if some of us had nothing
They’d dip into their goods
And spark you up something
Nice. 

“Here ya go man”

But the man on the street.
With the collar and the winking shoes
And the full-bellied-beer gut and the
Sunglasses when the sun had not
Shined on the rest of us
for weeks and the cuff links
and the everything.

He won’t give that bum a damn penny.
Tom rest his soul.