Ted pulled into a dark motel
with three hundred grand in his trunk.
He had just run out of cocaine to sell
exhausted and ready to bunk.

He lay on the bed with a bottle of liquor
perusing his twelve IDs.
His baggy eyes had been getting much thicker
from all those trips overseas.

He carefully checked his thirty-eight
and placed it next to his thigh.
He hoped his reaction would not be too late
to a visit from FBI.

He drank down half of that fifth of booze
to relieve some of all the tension
from running around with his neck in the noose
full of paranoid apprehension.

Ted visited several banks the next day,
renting boxes for safe deposit
in a three-piece suit of conservative grey
(That's the way he always does it.)

He sold his car and took a cab
to a suburb up in the valley.
He has set up a rather peculiar lab
in that pad of his facing the alley.

Several times I've talked to him saying,
"Ted, quit while you're still ahead!"
But he's much too possessed by that game he's playing ­
He'll keep rolling until he's dead.

- Tarjei Straume, Phoenix 1981



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