by cricketjeff on May 30, 2010. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
In the space between the low-lifes and the dirty urban creeps.
I was lost inside cheap whisky when she floated through the door,
Like an ancient Eastern princess, or a hard worked modern whore.
Told a story of a lover who had vanished like the fog,
And his rich and doting mother with a small and snappy dog.
I was shaken from my torpor, and the treasures of the stills,
When she followed up her story with four hundred dollar bills.
It’s a mean and dirty city but it’s where I make my pay,
Tracing men who dump their children for a hundred bucks a day.
Now I’m set to find a lover for a million dollar dame,
Who will pay twice what I’m asking but who doesn’t give her name.
If you’ve all read Dashiell Hammett then you think you know the tale,
How I solve a grizzly murder and I keep the broad from jail,
But the truth is not like fiction, and I’m not inside a book,
Just a dick who’s not called Tracy searching backstreets for a crook.
It was easy to discover where her lover lost his way
And to give her brief directions in exchange for ample pay.
Now the papers have their pictures, it’s the wedding of the year,
And I’m back to tailing lovers, tracing fathers, drinking beer …
When there’s nothing in your head to write about
write about nothing I guess …