He’s got tailfins and mag wheels.

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 He's got tailfins and mag wheels.
He's got a blonde on his arm
and a wad on his pocket.
He's cool, he's got cocaine.
He loves the broken sky,
the poor reception falling
all around and he bothers not
with the windows on redbrick walls.
Some windows lead
to cart laden hallways, slow
with nurses lugging water
in Styrofoam jugs to rooms
where old men stare away
beneath game shows which
hang from the ceiling.
He's a platinum bullet loose on the street
with candy flaked hands and four on the floor.
Cookin’and cool, he's got cocaine.
Money to spend, time
on his hands and love
like an octane bird
and a lady with a stainless
steel vulva with impeccable
sex whose skin
is a shadow on the snow.
He takes no shit, he's
got his pride, he
deals a little
on the side
 he's a hard
partying pisser he,
passing joints, laying
and voting straight Republican.