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Wed. column ping (indeed Kim Jong Il was not in death pool)

A visit from the Feds
By Howie Carr | Wednesday, December 21, 2011 | http://www.bostonherald.com | Columnists
Photo
Photo by Stuart Cahill

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the Big House,

Not a creature was stirring,

Not even a rat.

Whitey sits in his cell, scratching his Depends,

Wondering is this what the nuns meant by the wages of sin?

Once they called me Top Echelon Informant,

But now I’m 82, the docs tell me I’m sickly and gaunt.

The longer I’m in stir, the more it seems a tomb,

Not nearly as much fun as the good old Dog Room.

I used to say Christmas was for cops and for kids,

But all these years later, I find myself on the skids.

If only Catherine had stayed away from that tabby cat,

He brought the cops on me faster than any old rat.

Of course it could be worse, I could be old Zip, the G-man

we called “Neighbor,

Last time I checked he was in Starke, doing 40 years hard labor.

The guy who screwed my brother, his name is Mitt,

And I can’t get at him, I’m stuck here doing this bit.

And then there’s Flemmi, in solitary in Otisville,

Stevie’s chance of parole: absolutely nil.

God, how I wish I was yet on the lam,

But sometimes I think nobody even still gives a damn.

I miss all the women — Jackie, Catherine, Teresa and Dottie —

But out of them all, Sal Mineo had the best body.

All gone now — Buddy Roache, Billy O, Hank Garrity, too,

You’re all dead, and yes Willie McDonough, this even means you.

The Pen Tavern is padlocked, Triple O’s is no more,

And never again will the Choctaw Kid walk through my door.

It was ’55 when Rico slapped the cuffs on me,

I think I’ll rhyme this line with Pat Nee.

Crossing the bridge, tip your hat to Tommy King,

So what if they’ve dug up his body, it still has a nice ring.

Weeks was too weak, I should have given Rakes a shake,

As for O’Neil, what a big bloated fake.

The Dog House is shuttered, Angiulo sleeps with the fishes,

I’d be dead, too, if Zannino’d gotten his wishes.

Now the dawn sky is brightening, the sun’s rising o’er the bay,

And I have just one question: Are you sure Jimmy Cagney