He was a friend <br />of a friend. <br />A dirty undercover cop <br />that would set you up <br />and then bust your ass. <br />Selling drugs, <br />or guns, <br />or minors, <br />and then, <br />once caught, <br />for a price, <br />let you go, <br />and sell it <br />all <br />elsewhere. <br />I met him again <br />in his bar <br />doing a choke <br />kill all <br />hold <br />on a fat child <br />selling peanuts <br />He was drunk: <br />I knew <br />as he had left his gun <br />behind. Him <br />having the urge <br />and the tendency <br />to fire it <br />when drunk. <br />I didn't’t like what I saw, <br />but him being a friend, <br />of a friend <br />and a man <br />you: <br />living on the edge <br />in the gray zone <br />of the written law <br />didn't want as your enemy, <br />let it slide, <br />having sold out <br />of morals for less <br />than that, <br />like a god lay <br />or momentary oblivion. <br /> <br />I left at five <br />having sampled <br />and tried <br />everything <br />but the minors.<br /><br />Carsten Thomsen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-boyscout/
