Mr. Trouble

Mr. Trouble likes to visit on Sundays.
He comes in the night when the stores are closed
and the delivery men are all sleepin’,
walks right in like he owns the place,
full of himself and struttin’ like a gambler.

Mr. Trouble slips through the door
in the evenin’ when the lights are low
and the music is smooth,
and I am all tied up seducin’ free will,
goin’ out of my way to win over chance.

Mr. Trouble comes in with fleas
in his pockets, slides in real quiet
and clogs up the kitchen drain when the plumbers
are all on strike. Mr. Trouble just grinnin’
that mean assed grin, dressed in store bought
synthetics with big glass rings on his little fingers,
wearin’ white, high shoes with gold buckles that jingle,
you can hear him comin’ for a mile.
Mr. Trouble in dealer glasses
lookin’ flashier than a gay pimp on television.

In the winter when the heat’s turned off
Mr. Trouble comes callin’ in his fancy, fake fur coat,
leavin’ photographs of rich blondes in royal blue
polyester ski suits and Happy Hooker fox skin hats.

Mr. Trouble comes on Tuesdays with threats
from the mortgage company and checks back from
the bank. Mr. Trouble raises the price of postage
and hires people to fill up all the parkin’ spaces
where you work.

Oooh oooh watch out for Mr. Trouble,
though likely you won’t see him
he hangs out here so much.

Mr. Trouble makin’ a mess of my politics
and playin’ skip rope with my belief system,
ooooh ooooh watch out for Mr. Trouble.
When you hear his key turnin’ the lock
forget your plans and cancel your metaphysical definitions.
Mr. Trouble’s got plans for you, you don’t even
know what for, and if you mess with Mr. T.
he’ll dot your eyes.

Mr. Trouble strokin’ your long hair
sayin’ you sure look lovely, sharpenin’
the scissors in his hand.

Mr. Trouble hangin’ out bein’ cool
in back alleys and dark doorways,
doin’ some heavy dealin’ in misery and hard times.
Mr. Trouble with your address tattooed to his hand.

Mr. Trouble in his Harry Belafonte
open front shirt, smokin’ Havana cigars in ’65.
Mr. Trouble wearin’ a city Stetson
with a ten dollar silk band.

And when you ain’t got nothin’ left
you can always count on Mr. Trouble.

Mr. Trouble bettin’ on the blues
and layin’ your life on the line for losin’,
slippin’ his card beneath your door
to let you know he hasn’t forgotten.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *