A Pure Love.
Poem By Fay Slimm
Strutting in loose fitting shifty britches.
And thumbing their noses to rules of authority.
Seen tripping over stool pigeons.
Beginning to flip secret info gathered.
Info starting to slip,
From twitching, nervous quivering lips.
Unaware of the hawks circling above them nearby.
And hearing them rehearse recorded alibis.
On no witch hunt.
These hawks seek to feed on petty skunks.
And hooded punks dressed like monks.
Neither are they loud squawkers.
But protectors of the law.
And prepared to drag offenders of it,
From penthouses in droves.
On wearing robes to cover silk drawers.
Even those sitting on park benches pretending,
Their appearances of innocence...
But discover they've been trapped,
By their own associates.
Patting and hugging like smooth fat cats.
Attracting hawks from the trees.
Exposing their badges.
And making demands they drop to knees.
To then be handcuffed.