Poem by Mark Quinn
Gringo Scrote
What is the chance of meeting a scrote,
a Gringo scrote in a bubble coat,
walking through Mexico with a gun on his hip,
eyeballing people and taking no lip,
a Cuban cigar on the tip of his gob,
mess with him,
then your a knob,
he walks with a swagger and a Clint in his eye,
he’ll draw his six shooter,
and then it’s bye, bye.
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