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About This Poem
A Way Too Long Intro - The Savages: It's Macaroon's fault
“I heard he’s all fluff, a soft bellied puff,
that guy, what’s-his-name - Macaroon?”
said Jack P. Savage, who was a cut above average,
a brass-knuckled tough kind of goon.
“It’s McRaccoon,” replied Ima Sweet Lollipop,
who worked for Jack - he called her miss;
she was Jack’s girl Friday a couple days late
and was cold as a snake with no hiss.
The entire firm of Jack Savage, P.I.
was entirely made up of these:
a former show girl and a pudgy ex-cop,
two pods without any peas.
Making inquiries with cautious discretion
was the business that Savage was in.
“If we can’t find it, you didn’t lose it”
was his motto; eye-rolling lame and quite thin.
A pit boss had called about some dirty rat
with sticky fingers down at the Grand,
said he figured it was either the whiz with the mask
or one of the guys in the band.
Jack shouldered his holster and hiked up his belt
as he headed out the back door.
He had an appointment with some squirrel
on the strip at a quarter to four.
As he waddled along, wheezing for air
angels watched from afar.
They never knew from one day to the next
if Jack would make it clear to his car.
“What would he do?” said Jack to himself
as he thought of favorite movie, High Noon.
Would Marshall Will Kane choose a showdown
with a villain like Mickey Raccoon?
Would he saunter casually into the street?
Would he walk bravely into the fight?
Or would he fall to his fear of the man in the mask
and run cowardly into the night?
A near fender bender with a pink limousine
jerked Jack to the present again.
He’d heard a lot about Sticky Fingers McRaccoon
Would this be a fight he could win?
Sighing, he yearned for those long ago days,
with the savages, his little friends from the past.
He missed those small urchins but they’d gone separate ways,
(Vegas for him, Mexico, them); he’d heard they were having a blast.
The savages could help him solve this tough case
They were clever and sneaky and wise.
On a whim he drove his car to the airport
and flew off in search of allies.
As the city of Vegas faded from view
he pictured the whole group of them
they were a motley crew, those wee savages
but they’d pulled many a caper for him.
*to be continued...why, I don’t know.
What else is a fella to do on a cold rainy day?
With no where to be and nowhere to go?
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