Con Man Willy Poem by Donal Mahoney

Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.

Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.

Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away

in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars

under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,

a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.

One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,

a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.

He's proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.