Con Artist

There was a Con Artist, odd as ever.
He was as genuine as he was clever.
A middle aged man, maybe thirty-nine.
With bulging eyes and receeding hairline.
He was missing a few teeth here and there.
Most likely from his lack of healthcare.
Around his neck he wore a stethoscope,
As today he was a doctor and horoscope
Reader tomorrow. His tee shirt was white,
Just as plain as him, and not very bright.
He wore a pair of tattered old jeans,
Ripped from that one time when he was in his teens.
His Reeboks were old, and quite worn out.
All in all, he was not very stout.
This man was hopelessly lost in this age.
His childhood was lived as if in the stone age.
He had longed for open land and a meadow,
But was stuck in a small and cramped ghetto.
His guardian’s influence was not good,
And he was given no money for school should
He decide to do something with his life.
Although he knew his life was not grand,
He knew of those people that could barely stand.
Be it from lack of food or other thing,
Some were as skinny as a puppet string.
And it pained his heart to see such folk,
That he would give and give until he was broke.
Then he would drink, even if it meant stealing,
And begin his con, much like the Duke and King.
If casinos were a place to lose your money,
He would make it happen on his spree.
This man’s character may be hard to conjure,
He is kind, though his effect made me unsure.