Born a salesman, with a slick grin he lies
even to his mother. “Truth’s a slut—
a filly,” he laughs, that fierce flush in his eyes.
“You must take her, break her, keep her mouth shut.”
Others do the work, but he always gets his cut.
A perfect pitch, master of the bait and switch,
his jive-jazz-hooey’ll hit you in the gut.
See, inside him festers an itch
he has to scratch. Like a nervous tick or twitch
he can’t stop, buys his own crap, can’t keep track
of who he told what. Bad habits are a bitch—
one will land him in the lake, on his back
with concrete feet. A salesman for eternity:
carp his only company.