The Legend of Old Yam Tits

 

Old Yam Tits was a man of great greed,
With a pocket for every dishonest deed.
He’d sell you the sun or a bridge in the bay,
Then vanish like smoke at the end of the day.

He wore a bad suit made of cheap woolen thread,
With dreams of a swindle inside of his head.
He’d promise you gold from a mine in the sky,
While looking at you with a plot in his eye.

"Just twenty gold pieces!" he’d bark with a grin,
While hiding a deck with the aces tucked in.
He grifted the baker, he swindled the cook,
He stole every page from the 'Honesty' book.

But Yam was a bumbler, a criminal joke,
His schemes always ended in mirrors and smoke.
He tried to sell water to fish in the sea,
And ended up trapped in his own lunacy.

If you see Yam Tits with his file full of lies,
Just look at the grifter with piggley eyes.
For though he is shifty and looking for loot,
He’s only hot air in a cheap, ugly suit.

And if you see him and are willing and able,

make sure that, toward him, you flip a table,

get grime and dirt on that tacky suit,

and then swing your leg and give him the boot.

(Final stanza by Dan Kupka. Don't forget to tip your waiter.)