Bonnie’s body was sprawled in the dust

Clyde as always not far from her side

It ended just like she had predicted

Uncle Sam wringing out the dishcloth

Washing his hands of their deeds

Deciding it was time to drain the sink

Their bodies would be dissected

like their stories, her doggerel poetry

and the pictures found at the Joplin hideout

The reading public like dogs at a water bowl

lipstick on display at the sight of a cigar

hanging playfully from her mouth

It confirmed her as a murderer

no one knew how, but that didn’t matter

Didn’t she pose with a pistol in her hand?

Leg proudly cocked on the bumper of the ford?

They scratched the door at the scent of blood

Descending frantically upon the Louisiana wood

to have a  fracas with the officers

and paw at the bullet ridden car

Pen knives flicked and ready