John Harris, Hustler

And Johnny ran the table once again.
The purse was nearly seven hundred bucks.
He’d lured the sucker right into his den;
Until the money’s bet, old Johnny sucks.

He dithers, teeters, backs into a stool,
he hesitates on every easy shot.
He’ll miss a gimme pocket–pocket pool,
the only consolation that he’s got.
The aftermath of all this posturing,
this hook-line-and-sinker shark attack,
is all those wretched “hustlers” pondering
a means to get their hustled money back.

But Johnny’s good as memory and dust.
He’s on to Brooklyn, baby, Philly’s bust.