The Man..... br His dark bloodshot and crusty eyes squint br from behind the scratched glass of wire shades br Dust filled stubbles of grey and black whiskers br cover the other half of his sun fried ruddy face br Parking his insanity on a cactus stool of thorns br he shoots down shots of worms and Mescal br without the usual inherent need to throw up br The man....licks the salt from his wounds br and laughs under his lemon fresh breath br knowing the Mescal cures what it cannot kill..... br He drinks giving toast to the living dead br As his Compadre Coyotes howl removing some br poor deceased bastard stiff stinking br from the blood stained airtight trunk br of their primo '67' Chevy parked just outside this joint br And two whores in the corner play 'poker' with painted faces br practiced in their trade they ask the one armed dealer br if he knows who the three new Amigos are here to see br And as he deals them another losing hand of the clap br from his compromised deck of fractured cards br The border patrolman who is off duty at the jukebox br sucks his longneck beer and he knowingly smiles...... br A true Smuggler's grin br For he knows the answers before they asked the question br even if the bartender and the one arm dealer don't br When br Out from the trap door located behind the bar.... br two pregnant women and a boy crawl..... br blinded by The Man's offer of freedom br The Man.. br Removes his shades br Wipes his mouth with his bandana br Calls for the bartender to line them up out back br Two Thousand Five Hundred peso for the bunch br Delivered F.O.B.