There was a policeman named Bob
who might have been good at his job,
but monsters and schemes
made Bob fondly dream
of precincts where people just rob.
Bob thought his new post sounded swell.
This small-town department paid well.
Apartments were cheap,
he’d save for a Jeep…
wait, what’s that about “boca del”?
The townies are costuming buffs:
play dress-up and always play rough.
With all these fake wings,
tails, horns, claws and things,
just which pair of limbs do you cuff?
“Tell me, Principal, what's it to be
for the Herald and for the TV?
These people are dead.
Some words should be said.”
“Try the classics. A gang. PCP.”
Recruitment is not black and white,
but please tell Patrice that one might,
when dealing with students,
consider it prudent
to shoot only after they bite.
Whatever Ted Buchanan did,
what skeletons he maybe hid,
this girl’s full of guilt,
keeps saying she killed…
For fuck’s sake, she’s only a kid.
There once was a copper named Alice
who fell for the principal's malice.
She said, “You’ve the right”,
Miss Summers took flight,
but who made Miss Young’s neck a chalice?
Where’s justice and reason, and rhyme?
Bob almost got her to serve time –
that outlaw, B. Summers,
but now he’s (a bummer)
knocked out by her partner in crime.
Does no-one here know how to die?
The minute you don’t keep an eye
on a corpse, it goes, “Stop,
changed my mind,” and gets up,
and bails sans so much as goodbye.
One weekend, two juvenile chicks
poked someone to death with a stick.
Though their lies were a mess,
still, they didn’t confess –
walked free, like that creep Mr. Trick.
Just two chocolate bars and a cookie
made Bob botch arrests like a rookie.
His doctor was right!
Forever he’d diet
to see no more cruiser-hood nookie.
A good shift: done long before dark.
Bob told people where not to park,
he dealt with some vagrants,
his coffee was fragrant;
the whole long day, nobody LARPed.
The whole town’s full of garbage and pyres,
and the screeching of motorbike tires.
Go ONCE on vacay
for just seven days…
What’s that smell? Oh, Bob’s car is on fire.
For once, crime looks just like the flicks.
A freeze gun! But where are the chicks?
There should be someone busty,
but there’s only old Rusty,
five hair dryers, three sneaky dicks.
Just when there was quiet and peace,
some goth wrecked a wall piece by piece,
stopped men without fighting,
screamed, flew, and made lightning.
Bob wished he could call the police.
And these are the guys that mean well?
They skip in and out of a cell,
they mangle the bars,
then steal our car.
With feeling, once more: what the hell?
There goes everyone! This ship has sunk.
This damn town in which evil spelunks
can’t be home – now we see.
Bob has places to be,
somewhere easy: Miami, the Bronx...