Santino
One day, I’m drowning in the Black Sea,
and the only voice left in here is me.
A thought struck: some things are down to luck.
You know? Sheffield went under—
one Exocet through steel did it.
Me in the hospital, pitying, hauling the raw,
ferrying them home, tearing the doors
from ship’s heads, making space for plastered legs.
Mothers and fathers watched the news,
saw nothing, then mourned.
You were real good—convincing—laying beats,
singing me Song Sung Blue, not Tiger Feet.
Picture him crying, covering his head—
who was it said a brain’s the thing
to catch the conscience of the king?
No one, of course—just invention
after being sent away to join the fleet.
Who guessed there’d be war?
Sweat drips, as Michael Corleone speaks:
“Carlo, you got to answer for Sonny.”
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was instinct.
But something reeks, something stinks
beneath the Eastern sun. To run down debt—
maybe something owed is best left unsettled.
After all, it was luck. But the thought struck.
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