Lose at pool on purpose if you wind up in a biker bar.

I hate that she hates
that she can't always save me
from myself, my own stubborn eyes
my own sweaty ass.
I hate it as much as people
who come to my cocktail parties
and ask where the ice is.
Were you expecting me to say
"In the microwave," or are you
intentionally testing my dwindling patience?

Oh, that bitch.
That lying, one-armed bitch.
She said she didn't like to party.

He's doing well, I'm still doing
and we fielded it by talking
about everyone but myself.
Parried like pros, gosh darn-it.

My mother gave me a quill pen
ink well, and hand-tooled leather journal
for Christmas. She told me to write
my memoirs in it, cursive of course.
Christ, Ma--
I'm not on my deathbed yet, but fret not:
you're still the beneficiary
of that seventy-five grand.

They're dealing the next hand
at that same card table, but
my back's not to the wall
for once
and that sawed-off on a swivel
ain't brushing 'gainst my knee.

This is how Bill Hickock died.