99%

I'm a wounded veteran,
ninety nine percent disabled,
at the mercy of the softest blow.
i keep my head held low
just like any honest politician,
if one can be found.
and my cellar is full of lies
dressed in suits and ties,
yawning, stretching, and preparing
for another daily hike
or a low blow to the belly
outside of my neighborhood deli.
towards devout young sinners,
i had no other choice but to go.
"We'll have a party," i thought,
"and look what all I've bought!"
it's not as complicated as it seems:
it's like catching a cold or an airplane,
just a question of times
and unsophisticated rhymes
or simply good connections.
business is business, so I've heard.
and that's what astonishes me:
I've had a hundred chances to be free
yet remain around the dining room table
protesting loudly or not.
like you, my little reader under light,
I'll ham it up with you tonight!
with handcuffs and old revolvers
or pink shrimp and Russian caviar;
our whistles echoing in the street
like steam engines full of heat.