Dicey

Dicey was my weed connect

She was a fat Comanche woman

And but for a nominal diff'rence in plumbin

She was like a man in every respect


She came by her money thru boostin and dealin

Allowin as how it was owed to her

And takin whatever was showed to her

With clear conscience; it's Indian-givin, not stealin


Daily at lunchtime I's sneakin away

To hang with her mother and her at her house

All manner of thievery they would espouse

Her underarm flab as she vacuumed would sway


I don't have much sympathy for her it seems

As if on the White conscience her people would prey

She gave me her food surplus marked "BIA"

I still see those generic tins in my dreams


But I don't begrudge her that portion of fun

Though I might righteously object

To her gumption I give every ounce of respect

And grant kleptomania time in the sun


And for every other sin she might have had

From shoplifting to shorting me on the weed

On some things most fiends would be agreed

Any dealer who fronts cannot be that bad.