It’s their conspicuousness
that disturbs me most,
hanging out there
like damp clothes on a line,
ready to be dipped into the nearest soup.
The flashiest ones,
flowered, or flaunting calendar figurines,
those are first to get stained,
that repulse rather than attract the girls,
ostentation for a world of make-believe.
And all those showy-men wearing their garish displays
like some medieval armor on parade,
are hardly more than superficial
caricatures, funny paper
Blazes Boylans with sales-pitch at the tip of their tongues,
the Gangsta-Ethic on parade.