Ode to the Life

I tell you now about the hit we made,
that strike most foul against the boss's foe--
a grievous past offense was three times paid
in blood, the only currency we know.

We knew our targets well by deed and sight;
three henchmen of that rival syndicate
whose foulest trade we sought to ever fight
and who we swore that we should always hate.

Because my loyalty is widely known,
into my hands this job was fully placed.
Revenge most bloody surely would be shown
and evidence of such then be erased.

I chose two men I thought would well assist
And unto them I gave my strict commands.
We knew the thugs might very well resist,
So cool perception did this job demand.

The car we took was plain unto the eye;
Our guns were sure to bear no reckless trace.
To look at us, no outward signs did cry
"Beware", no give away, no sign displaced.

Along the city streets we made our way,
Our bloody rendezvous awaiting us,
In silence, not a word we had to say:
Twas best to simply do, and not discuss.

We parked the car within the alleyway,
One man stayed there to keep the engine warm.
Beneath our coats, our weapons hid away,
Onto the street we stepped, intent on harm.

The door was easily forced; we pushed inside
A dim and empty bar, "The Happy Hawk".
Our inside man had, after all, not lied:
From somewhere in the back came sounds of talk.

The inner door was loudly kicked aside;
Beyond it three men quickly made to rise.
"Our boss is quite displeased with you," I cried
And then our weapons barked a cruel surprise.

The one called "Lefty" Moore was first to die:
A single shotgun blast right to the head.
He fell without the time to make a cry,
Not even time to realize he was dead.

My partner's Uzi spit its bursts of death;
A dozen sparks were stitched across the room.
Old Tony Marciano drew one breath
Before the fiery spray announced his doom.

And then we turned to sight upon the last:
That bastard, Johnny "Papa" Mantonette.
He knew that he could not outspeed the blast
and so he calmly smoked his cigarette.

His calm was feigned, for sure, but that was fine;
He thought to die a noble bravo's end.
But we had other plans for him in mind:
A coward's grave to him we had to send.

And so I shot him once along the knee.
He dropped at once, a scream upon his lips.
He huddled there; we stood and watched him bleed
a puddle on the floor, in steady drips.

He tried to choke his fear into control
but then my partner reached into his bag--
Withdrew a can of high-octane petrol
and followed with a pair of oil-soaked rags.

He knew what we were going to do to him
And still he braved a smile for us to see.
His chance for painless death had gone from slim
to none-- for death by flame was our decree.

He tried to crawl but we took care of it--
a pair of rounds into each of his hands,
and then his other leg, a single hit.
At last, the time had come to set his bands.

We shackled him to Lefty's cooling heap.
Still conscious, Papa scarcely made a sound.
His eyes were gazing far into the deep
Our fists could not suffice to bring him 'round.

No matter; we continued in our work,
in sprinkling gasoline around the floor.
I struck match, a salutory jerk,
and dropped it as we exited the door.

Behind us, flames sprang up in orange heat
and Papa finally let his scream get out.
We smiled as we walked out to the street,
the smoke behind us billowing in gouts.

Our getaway was clean and quick, as planned;
we changed our suits and went to tell the boss.
The flames, by wind, had easily been fanned;
"The Happy Hawk" would be a total loss.

Of all the hits I've had to engineer,
my years of spilling blood before the mob,
That triple-slaying is to me most dear:
It's good to take some pride when doing your job.