Poetry Reading: Poetic Justice, Jonathan Goldman
New Releases
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2m 26s
Performed by Val Cole
POEM:
T’was my last caper, a risky but weighty score:
Safe dial whirred, door popped at speed,
No chance to focus, time to take a shot,
In n’ out in minutes, so why’d I get caught?
Cops cuff’d me, then questioned me, but I didn’t break,
The files stashed, they couldn’t charge me,
But wasted no time planting seeds of doubt,
“Somebody’s been talking,” they casually dropped.
If one of my crew snitched, I’d figure it out.
A close pack we were, tied by our trials,
Traditions oft’n lie, so I drilled down deep,
Only four knew the plan, a rare conceit,
Can any leave alive? Most bloody receipt.
My bag man, they call’d him the Butter Knife,
Never let a mark win, cunning ran rife.
He made the contact, he secured the score,
When asked, “Did you let me get caught?”
He refused to answer; Cross off one more.
Mac was the best driver–always got away,
A life lived too fast, no pause or delay,
Never stopp’d to think, rather chase the toast,
At the meet, I asked, “Why’d you ghost the heist?”
He made a run for it, so his corpse must roast.
Fat Tony wasn’t just a handler, but a made man,
My mate, he was–unlike Mac–consistent as sin,
` He did a dime for me, uncheckered loyalty,
But ne’er made the exchange, body floating out to sea.
None to squeal; the Feds couldn’t charge me,
Covert info, Fools gold, the law couldn’t bar me.
Then a congressman bid—more than info bought,
Money is evil, but censorship got me shot.
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