A living tidal wave
of irresponsible energy
With flaming red hair,
he was a loquacious raconteur
who spoke with an Irish brogue
that left side-splitting laughter
in its wake.
He believed his own lies—
ate, drank, chain smoked
and gambled his way
into an early grave.
Every time we got together,
he would tearfully embrace me
with his recurring mantra:
Death is near!
While serving in the U.S. Navy,
he married a girl from Majorca,
a second wife from Casablanca,
and later, while living in his car,
a third wife who was a widow
of a Philadelphian mobster.
Massively obese, he packed heat,
danced like Jackie Gleason,
and sang like the fat friends
of Nathan Detroit who had
A horse. Right here.
The sun glinted off his gold
horseshoe pinky ring
as he inhaled each breath
from his oxygen tank
like a bug-eyed flapping fish
out of water gasping for life.
He never stopped chain smoking
until he breathed his last breath,
I just never had any luck!