He chased me down 73rd street.
He was smaller than me.
But he was one of the bad guys.
I was in better shape, now.
I grew six-inches over the summer.
I pumped iron and boxed.
I lost all my baby fat.
I was fifteen and lean.
Anyway, I heard him wheezing behind me.
I figured it was from:
The two pack-a-day Camel habit he had.
My plan was to really get him winded.
When I heard him gasping in the frigid, Chicago air,
I stopped abruptly, turned around, and the fists were flying.
I had him whipped, man!
The tough guy, Larry K was getting his ass kicked,
And I was the guy doing it to him.
I took his wallet from his leather jacket.
Then I stomped on him with my cuban heeled shoes.
Larry said, "Hey stop man, I'm sorry, just stop"!
He got up and put himself together.
He smiled his toothless, acne-faced smile at me.
He was an ugly mutha'.
I handed his wallet to him.
He offered me a smoke.
I took it.
He lit it with his Zippo lighter.
He asked me if I wanted to go to a basement party.
I said, "Yeah, that's cool".
It was nice and warm in there.
The music was good, and so were the babes.
Larry and I drank a few beers together.
He introduced me around to a few people.
Kids I hung out with noticed that Larry was my new friend.
It felt good.
It felt real good.