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    Parker, Bonnie

    The Story of Suicide Sal, 1932, by Bonnie Parker.

    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 take 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 are 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 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 now 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 the last with the “loot” in the door,
    When the”teller” dead-aimed a revolver
    From where they forced him to 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 man’s 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 he “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 this hell that he’s caused me,
    And love him as long as I live.
    But there’s no chance of his ever coming,
    For he and his moll have no fears
    But that I will die in prison,
    Or “flatten” this fifty years.
    Tomorrow 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.”