Ain’t that just the Luck

At long last, I reckon I’ve deciphered the sage musings of Charles Earl Bowles—Black Bart, the poetic plunderer—when he scribbled down his verses and left them behind for the bank detectives to puzzle over. Then again, maybe I knew the truth all along but was too busy being bamboozled by life’s little indignities to add two and two and get the proper answer before now.

“I’ve labored long and hard for bread,
For honor, and for riches,
But on my corns too long you’ve tread,
You fine-haired sons of bitches.”

My tribulations, mind you, do not come by way of any six-shooter-wielding highwayman but by a more refined species of scoundrel—the erudite kind with college degrees, fine waistcoats, and a constitution that forbids labor but encourages the squeezing of the workingman till he hollers for mercy. These gentle people rob a body without the discourtesy of a mask or a pistol, preferring the pen, the ledger, and the unholy arithmetic of compound interest.

“An erudite bastard’s wits run deep,
Yet silver is a prize they’ll never keep.
For their rusty tongues and ink-stained hands
Ain’t worth a damn in law abided lands.”

And while I ain’t inclined to take up robbery just yet, I do find myself contemplating the dubious honor of being flat busted, wondering where the next house payment is coming from, and whether any enterprising soul is in the market for an elderly cuss such as myself—one who still knows a thing or two, but ain’t got the needed papers to prove it.