Our man

He is an alcoholic
Who never pays for his drinks.

A workaholic whose job
Is to gamble with our money.

He once was a kind guy,
But now,
Roughed up by his profession,
(I don’t believe that bullshit about his dad)
His manners have gone down the hill,

(Well, listen,

Actually,

He is a psychopath,

Addicted to violence,

Aggressive…)

Watch out!!

He will hit you and make you bleed,
Or kill you!

Oops!

That was him!

Bloody hell!

That was fast!

If you are not careful
He will run you over
With his dangerous driving,
Typically in a busy town centre,
Preferably abroad,
Destroying as well the stalls of humble traders,
With expensive cars paid with our money,
Or stolen.

His list of contacts is endless,
Mostly dodgy,
Or even toxic,
But no private life,
And certainly no friends,
Apart from the Big One,
The only person he respects,
Even though they are not allowed to see each other.

Plenty of casual sex,
But we never know
How good it is, really,
Or what diseases he may have caught
And passed.

And despite all that,
Our security is in his hands,
And we have to trust him,
Blindly,
Forcefully,
And love him,
Because at the end of the day
He is one of us.

I’ll tell you what:

I think he is a wanker!

I know he is ready to die,

But he is still a wanker,

Yes!

Mr Bond is a criminal wanker,

And nobody cares!

Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

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