Pretty Boy Floyd

Flies still buzz-bomb that spot
where the G men gunned you down.
Hungry, tired, frost on your clothes.
Like bagging a whipped deer.

The grass never greens
in the place where you fell
and your blood, they say, tints
the bushes with red every Spring.

You tipped your hat to the ladies
you robbed, gave candy to babies,
but your two-timed trio of women 
waited till their nails grew and curled
for one more romp in those 
ever-loving pretty boy arms.

The Okies still claim your ghost
roams the hills, tommy gun tucked
under one arm. You croon out your
dreams about bigger bank rolls, sweet
loving kisses and picket-fenced
white houses doused far too soon.

Pris Campbell

Photograph: Pretty Boy Floyd

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     Pretty Boy Floyd