Once upon a recent now,
the beautiful ignorant bastard
was venturing to Crown Heights
to play some bluesy tunes with a friend.
Exiting the rumbler,
carrying his guitar,
he stopped to get a six pack,
when a crack man asked him for change.
Knowing Matty H,
he had it, but was calculating
the next six pack,
so he stalled the crack man and moved on.
Walking and feeling ghosts,
but ignoring the premonition,
turning his back,
he was suddenly jumped by the addicted asshole.
Shoved to the ground,
the bad breath man said something sinister like
"Ya shoulda given me your change..."
He had a knife to Matt's chest.
The cracky bastard dug into Matt's deep coat pockets,
finding and only taking his phone and some dollars,
leaving Matt with his expensive pro guitar
and a bloody surprise.
My great friend Matthew got up,
dusted himself off, counted his blessings,
and started his planned journey to his mate's flat,
when he felt a cold liquid soaking his shirt and running down his torso.
Turns out, for ill fate but best,
the criminal put too much pressure on his chest with the knife
and actually stabbed Matt in the chest,
puncturing his liver.
Matt is alright,
and the cops even caught the guy;
Matt said the best part was going to the police station,
feeling like he was in a movie and identifying the culprit through glass.
Good thing Matt has Keith Richard's resilience and his liver,
because I love him more than dreams, nightmares and all,
and when he told me this story,
I promised him I would write a poem about it.