Coke Dealers Kill Each Other

Churchman checks our skiing inventory
while my girl named Laurie

presses her finger on the trigger,
stoic emotional rigor

it takes to shoot that gun,
Churchman goes down in the Filipino sun.

We grab our supplies and hit the turf,
skiers left and right come out of the surf.

Laurie 'n me make so much money off this wave,
but Churchman comes back to get some from his watery grave,

so Laurie takes the levers while me in my slippers
takes a semi-automatic and turns Churchman's shoulders to ribbons,

one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight,
it most certainly should have been a twist of fate

'cos Churchman remained unaffected
while Laurie looked dejected,

hands on her belly.
My bullets went through her like jelly.

And so, like any good man who knows his wife's about to die,
I pick the semi-auto up and tell her goodbye.

Carry on, Mr. Churchman, I grimaced to say,
"Was that a hot job," he asked, "was that a hot lay?"