After being reunited with one of my oldest mates the other day, I was prompted to write:

Al Capone Guns Still Don’t Argue

Sheffield, and Tuesday night’s Top Rank night

Skank and shuffle, ultraviolet light

Godfrey, Sam, Glendon, Cecil, Trigger,

And Me. In a line.

And Al Capone Guns Don’t Argue

A dance with a gyal, up close, feels fine

Lorraine, or Sheila for the whine and grine

Glendon: How come you like all the black music,

When you’re white?

Al Capone Guns Don’t Argue

I could say something about the rhythms and beat

Instead my Kojak lolly smashes, down by his feet

I say: You like Kung-Fu, but you’re not Chinese

They all laugh. So does he

Because Al Capone Guns Don’t Argue

Then skinny legs inside Oxford Bags

Stride home toward homework, and Bruce Lee mags

Godfrey, Sam, Glendon, Cecil, Trigger

And Me. Just lads

And Al Capone Guns Don’t Argue

Rude Boys to grown men, Godfrey and I reminisce

Tank-tops in the Top Rank, worn by folk that we miss

He still speaks to Glendon though

So I say: Tell him this

Al Capone Guns Still Don’t Argue