Con Artist
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Con Artist
Con ArtistHe looked back many years and saw the verdant tears of an east Texas willowwhen he'd found his scene that convict mixed some green from blue n yellowpainting was his best view his clearest window through steely bars and stonewallscos all he looked forward to was those precious few birthday cards and phone callsit'd been ten years gone since a big scam gone wrong and that drunk attorneynow it was nearly midnight and a cold needle while tied to a hard prison gurneycops never found the cash but his prints were a match so he got the harshest sentencehis appeals were denied so he figgered in heaven's sight death would be repentenceit was lights out at nineand night hours were the hardestcos his brush was the breathin the lungs of that con artistwell, he'd learned to draw from the faces he saw in the Sunday funnieshe'd sketch his Mama's face lotsa Mother's Days when he was short of moneycos when he was a boy she'd bring hot dogs n Chips Ahoy to him at lunchtimeshe knew that he'd be, near that weeping tree painting in the sunshinethough it was lights out at ninehis night hours were the darkestcos his brush was what shinedin the eyes of that con artisthe said goodbye to the guard and reached through the bars for a handcuff handshakeas midnight closed in that guard promised him he'd mail his final landscapenow his mama sits each night by the lonely light of a flickering candlea picture in a frame bears her poor son's name above her manteland it was lights out at nineand night hours were the hardestcos his brush was the breathin the lungs of that con artistbut there's a hole by a willow treewhere a canvas bag of cash used to be...
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