They're Shucksters sliding through unmarked streets
Strung-out, simple-stepped, and boisterous
Riding Harleys, Flat-tops, bottle-necks
Trapped in a constant narcotics mixer
Bloody hollow noses and bleak after-tastes
Black-eyes, short hair and tempers.

They're Thieves with spider fingers pulling pocket-books,
Bill-folds and thumb-struck matches
Opening cigarettes to smog trails and thick laughs
Fluttering under nicotine breezes and cold dank
Jamming through freeways and Bourbon blues
Gleaming like straight razors along glassed concrete

They're Shysters with greenbacks and guzzled sentences
Oiled down and slim in bomber-jackets, washed-out jeans
Brass-knuckles to brass-tacks over white powder
Pot-shots on mail-boxes and square white-collars
Quick on the slang and slanderous with their screams

They're Alleyway Fucks and blood-bubbled backs driving on cinderblocks
With wind-loosened condom wrappers and cracked medicine bottles
Squirming under black-and-whites, taking fists to aviators
Cowboy caps smoldering under Zippo flame
Scout hats and fedoras mingling with bike-chains
Legs connecting between zip-gun bursts

They're Thugs gripping the coat-tails of Made Men
Jive and jukin' with dried-eyes and sad sweat
Living out stolen dreams on jacked bank accounts
Lucky with the Luckies and lost tunnel-visions
BOLOs ruling underground until nickel-plated
Coffin-nails take that final plunge

They're Losers with switchblades and palm-baggies
Worn as accessories and badges
Looking like gods and kings with syringes,
Under dwindling salt lamps and loss
Empty of any reason, blind to brighter boulevards
Existing in hiding and Evasion and Escape
Never being more than a flash fire or muted siren.

They're Glory and Possibility left in the gutter.