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The Mustache Lament

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He cackles often,
shaking the fibers of my hairy caricature
with the high-pitched quips
of another
maniacal guffaw.

“You’ll never get away with it!”
she cries in a girlish tremor,
the town’s damsel in perpetual distress,
as Snidely ties her to the
fluid, leaping train tracks,
sweat dripping into my coat.

“Oh, but I have you this time!”
He exclaims
Stroking my waxed apexes
which form a second smile
above his own
antagonistic grin.

He twiddles his thumbs,
feeling very pleased, it seems,
with another apparently
Flawless Plan,
missing the mistakes,
which seem to me,
As evident as a
Cartoon-blast explosion

I can feel the shudders of
his quivering lips
as he ponders the preposterous possibility
of fitting 100 canvas sacks
with the declaratory dollar sign
into our get-away wheelbarrow.

I wonder if he knows
He is but a shadow of a scoundrel
a mere silhouette of villainy.
his true heinous legacy
the comic ineptness of his crimes.

And now,
from beneath his angled nose,
The point of which obscures
my well-coifed center.
I can feel the grin
make its sad descent,
a frown appearing
as the hero makes his entrance
on the crude horizon.

Foiled again? I want to ask
as pointedly
as my oiled tips will allow.





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