#237 Another Billy the Kid

by Frank Sonderborg

Spoke on the phone to him about his trial.
Laughed said he would be out in five. Guilty not him.
Yes he did drive the getaway car. He liked fast cars.
Yes he did have a shotgun. He liked guns.
The cops had stitched them up.
Waiting. Like Dirty Harry.
Are you feeling lucky.
Yes a gun went off and somebody died.
He would never work with Frenchmen again.
I asked him who could he trust.
Answer was his guitar.
They bugged our meeting.
Could have stopped us at any-time.
So whose fault was it really then. Not Billys.
The jury loved his teeth his smile his logic.
Misguided getaway driver for thieving murdering johnny foreigners.
He promised it would not happen ever again.
Billy got away with it. This time.
The body on the stretcher coming out of the woods had his favourite Nikes on.
I watched it on TV. I knew it was him.
He just had to go back and check on his pension plan.
Never trust a Frenchman. Are you feeling lucky punk.
He laughed he dropped acid he sang Ziggy songs he smoked pot he died.
Blown away by an avenging Gallic Garrett.
Never cross a Frenchman.
Billy told his Mum he was an entertainer on a Cruise-Ship.
I stood with her as they lowered him down.
I said at heart he was a good person.
But I knew the lie.
At heart he was just another Billy the Kid.

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