We called him Mr.Chins cuz he had four of ‘em.
We called him The Chizzler and he hated it:
Always chugged a brew before playing the rube,
And taking the pot for himself.
He whiffed a’ porkrinds and blackjack,
And his lip ticked for the snow.
He sucked down the Jaeg like a hunter,
Too loose and obtuse with a bow:
Missed his mark –
Like he missed his mom –
And his dad was good for the whoopin’s.
He was straight-shot in the flatters,
But took a cab home alone.
He said he gambled for the ladies,
The ones he’s never known.
He had a keen eye for the rail run,
Cued low for the buck and the lie,
He was a stacked-quarter hustle,
A con that went glibly awry.