The Poems of Bonnie Parker

You've read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you're still in need;
of something to read,
here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I'm sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they're not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pigeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
"I'll never be free,
so I'll meet a few of them in hell"

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn't give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it's fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can't find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There's two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we'd make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped"

The police haven't got the report yet but Clyde called me up today. He said,"Don't start any fights; we aren't working nights, we're joining the NRA." From Irving to West Dallas viaduct is known as the Great Divide. Where the women are kin; and the men are men, and they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde. If they try to act like citizens and rent them a nice little flat. About the third night; they're invited to fight, by a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat. They don't think they're too smart or desperate they know that the law always wins. They've been shot at before; but they do not ignore, that death is the wages of sin. Some day they'll go down together they'll bury them side by side. To few it'll be grief, to the law a relief but it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.

Bonnie Parker wrote most of her poems, while in jail in a little notebook
she had obtained from The First National Bank of Burkburnett, Texas

We each of us have a good "alibi"
For being down here in the "joint"
But few of them really are justified
If you get right down to the point.

You've heard of a woman's glory
Being spent on a "downright cur"
Still you can't always judge the story
As true, being told by her.

As long as I've stayed on this "island"
And heard "confidence tales" from each "gal"
Only one seemed interesting and truthful-
The story of "Suicide Sal".

Now "Sal" was a gal of rare beauty,
Though her features were coarse and tough;
She never once faltered from duty
To play on the "up and up".

"Sal" told me this tale on the evening
Before she was turned out "free"
And I'll do my best to relate it
Just as she told it to me:

I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;
Not treated like Helen of Troy,
I was taught that "rods were rulers"
And "ranked" as a greasy cowboy.

Then I left my old home for the city
To play in its mad dizzy whirl,
Not knowing how little of pity
It holds for a country girl.

There I fell for "the line" of a "henchman" A "professional killer" from "Chi" I couldn't help loving him madly, For him even I would die. One year we were desperately happy Our "ill gotten gains" we spent free, I was taught the ways of the "underworld" Jack was just like a "god" to me. I got on the "F.B.A." payroll To get the "inside lay" of the "job" The bank was "turning big money"! It looked like a "cinch for the mob". Eighty grand without even a "rumble"- Jack was last with the "loot" in the door, When the "teller" dead-aimed a revolver From where they forced him to lie on the floor. I knew I had only a moment- He would surely get Jack as he ran, So I "staged" a "big fade out" beside him And knocked the forty-five out of his hand. They "rapped me down big" at the station, And informed me that I'd get the blame For the "dramatic stunt" pulled on the "teller" Looked to them, too much like a "game". The "police" called it a "frame-up" Said it was an "inside job" But I steadily denied any knowledge Or dealings with "underworld mobs". The "gang" hired a couple of lawyers, The best "fixers" in any mans town, But it takes more than lawyers and money When Uncle Sam starts "shaking you down". I was charged as a "scion of gangland" And tried for my wages of sin, The "dirty dozen" found me guilty- From five to fifty years in the pen. I took the "rap" like good people, And never one "squawk" did I make Jack "dropped himself" on the promise That we make a "sensational break". Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story, Five years have gone over my head Without even so much as a letter- At first I thought he was dead. But not long ago I discovered; From a gal in the joint named Lyle, That Jack and his "moll" had "got over" And were living in true "gangster style". If he had returned to me sometime, Though he hadn't a cent to give I'd forget all the hell that he's caused me, And love him as long as I lived. But there's no chance of his ever coming, For he and his moll have no fears But that I will die in this prison, Or "flatten" this fifty years. Tommorow I'll be on the "outside" And I'll "drop myself" on it today, I'll "bump 'em if they give me the "hotsquat" On this island out here in the bay...

The iron doors swung wide next morning For a gruesome woman of waste, Who at last had a chance to "fix it" Murder showed in her cynical face. Not long ago I read in the paper That a gal on the East Side got "hot" And when the smoke finally retreated, Two of gangdom were found "on the spot". It related the colorful story Of a "jilted gangster gal" Two days later, a "sub-gun" ended The story of "Suicide Sal".

"The Street Girl" by Bonnie Parker
Owner Steve Haas

"OUTLAWS" - Billy the Kid and Clyde Barrow

Poem Two by David Otis

Poem Three by David Otis