Alan Moore — Old Gangsters Never Die

Old gangsters never die Except the few that pass away in cinemas at midnight Lay there sprawling in the footlights for the usherette or ice-cream girl to find And if I die God knows, I might Don't make me die in black and white Don't make me share a haunted screen with all those other ghostboys who stood trembling in the foyer sipping wine Then coughed, and shoot their cuffs and check the time and step outside and get cut down by dead policеmen faces strobing in the panic-light Thеir long dark cars parked out the back their haloes black against the night and John Dillinger's name in finest bulletsilver etched upon the hearts a cold tattoo upon the skin right next to where the badge is pinned I could die carefully at dusk Cause buddy, I once owned a pair of diamond collar studs, and as I live and breathe I swear that that's no lie and men with such good taste as me deserve to cash their chips more elegant than those without a shirt upon their back or shine upon their dancing shoes like, uh, playing poker being dealt the ace of flames, you stand and whispering once your mother's name pitch headlong dead across the roulette table bulletholes pinned like armistice poppies in neat rows across your back or drowning do you know, so many hoods and hitmen got sent down to tread the river bed for all eternity and now they look like statues in some cold submerged art gallery and I would gladly kiss the hand of any man who'd bind my wrists and send me down to be in such good company Dutch Schultz, Capone, why mean like that had hellstars in their eyes and when they walked in groups of more than three they must have look like grounded constellations torn down from a B-movie sky Old gangsters, they never die Say, say wouldn't it be nice to fall asleep forever in some, some, some old speakeasy in the 1920s where they never pulled aside the blind and looked outside to find that that fifty years had washed away all of the legends and the zoot suits and the bloodstains like a fistful of dead rose someone left with the hatcheck girl and then drove off into old Chicago with their windows wound and radio turned down to keep their holstered shoulders cold and dry Old gangsters, they never die Say, John! Hey, John I, I got the tickets for the show, here, in my very hand Enjoy that show and when you kiss that girl goodnight there in her red dress streaming, do it carefully good burgundy upon the tongue, for she will kill you, John and one must always kiss one's killer Now ain't that so? Hey, ma! They shot your boys out there and as I live and breathe I swear I never seen a pair who fell so sweet to hear the final poetry of cordite in the air or turned their faces up like so receiving death as if it were a mother's kiss or something black and rare Hey, hey Fellas is it cold there in that movie-house tonight? C'mon, let's pass out that Jack Daniels and we'll talk about old murders and double crosses and dead blondes and we'll say "Here's lookin' atcha!" "Here's blood in your eye!" Old ghosts sit in the backroom Old bodies don't tell stories Old dreams wear dusty clothing Old gangsters Never die