Moe B's Trick Bag Poem by Buddy Bee Anthony

Challenge
old Morris Belmont on his avenue
He'll throw a fit
Fire up the coals have
you skewered
on his roasting spit.
When old Moe B.
starts ringing church bells
in his 9th circle of hell
You'll think he's Quasimodo
and you're his unlucky bell
Minding your solitary business
walkin' down
his street.
You're the color of connected
cool, collected and discreet.
A day tripping, traveler
your smile has body heat.
Leave your affectations
at Moe's door
Or you'll feel hell fires
fury and more.
He's Mr. Big to you
Morris Belmont.

He'll pat you on your back.
you'll think he's your friend.
while he's making plans to
bust up your front and back end.
Moe B's literary tools is a
snub nose with hollow points 38 or 32.
He'll 86 you' and your grandma
simply on a ruse.
if you don't run like hell
far off enough away
you'll lose more than your wallet
and shoes.
Fore
tribute must be paid
and payment is due.
Since, his motto is
it's hip to be cruel.
On Morris Belmont's Avenue.

On the prowl
for the next ingredient in
his sufferer's stew,
in neon colored lights it blinks
you're the daily special on the menu.'
word on the street
Moe Belmont's
the bad ass of blues.
I suggest to all of those who haven't
heard the news is

don't let your ass be showin'
on Master Belmont's Avenue
because Moe B's tricked out ponies
are on the hunt to blow away
their next sucker
Best hope and pray
their next dead sucker
isn't you.

All copyrights, and editing reserved as is by this author

Buddy Bee Anthony

Re-edited 12/30/2022 @ 10: 00 PM Pacific Standard Time