Sits alone in his $3000 antique chair.
Stays at home all day waiting for the moon
to rise and his nightly work to begin.
Fitted satin gloves exchanged for Kevlar,
black leather, and a flowing black cape that
thrashes behind him in the warm city breeze.
Alarms and frantic footsteps off in the distance
Call him to his piteous prey, they cower
When his merciless countenance is upon them
Criminals are all pathetic pusillanimous punks
In his cold eyes, not worth a drop of compassion.
He tosses the scum against the cold brick of the alley
His head jerks from the impact of his 17-year-old skull
Against the crumbling white wall, dust soaks into dirty blonde hair.
He leaves a trail of blood down the gang symbol graffiti
A smirk slices across his concrete face as he reaches
Into the crook's tattered jacket to pull out tonight's load,
In his bloody fist he grips a loaf of bread.