Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.
Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.
Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away
in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars
under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,
a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.
One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,
a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.
He's proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem