Tattoos in Mayberry

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I once knew a young buck named Phil.
He'd walk out your store without paying the bill.
His nickname was Rob.
He was a one man mob.
According to him,
he was a thief of high repute.
No bones about it.
He'd pillage your loot.
He stole from the stars.
He fenced fine, fancy cars.
He took from musicians
 their, gold inlaid, guitars.
He offloaded mink coats
of ermine and foxes.
He snuck off with valuables
lock picked from boxes.
He'd shout as he'd speak.
You could say Phil was unique.
He took his free base,
but  he didn't play ball.
He would smoke til flat-broke
and another police call.
But, at the scene of the crime,
no Phil would they find.
Only a plastic container
once filled with a pill
the color of blow.
His flesh was white
as fresh snow.
But, he'd bleed you 
as black
as disaster.

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Buddy Bee Anthony


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Phil