Those bullets made him like screen doors
as his hole-ly life's sealed as jail.
Pain-self pain! - pious thug abhors.
those bullets made him like screen doors.
The door of wood box shuts, gin pours,
flushed and gushing, his eight molls wail.
Those bullets made him like screen doors
as his hole-ly life's sealed as jail.
Glenn Bagshaw
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-bugsy/
