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.