Now, the star-faced skeets
Had faces with stars
While the plain-faced skeets
Had none upon thars

Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.

But, because they had stars, all the star-faced skeets
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of skeets on the streets”
With their guns in the air, they would yell at the wussies
“We’ll have nothing to do with you baby-faced pussies”
And if they met some downtown, when they were out drinking,
They’d beat the shit out of those who were scared of some inking

When the star-faced skeets would go out causing shit
In the Blocks or the Circle or some bar full of tits
They wouldn’t invite the plain-looking faces
Or let them hang around any of the cool places

Then one day a few clear-faced skeets found
A magical shop called Troublebound
They could go in with money, and a dream of a star
And in an hour they’d become the scary one in a bar
One by one they went in, one by one they came out
Until every skeet had a star, between their eye and their mout’

The skeets who had always had the stars on their cheeks
Noticed they were getting copied by the weak geeks and freaks
They got out their shotties, to kill them all with a blast
But couldn’t remember who had the stars first or last

Their new plan was to remove the stars, leaving no trace
So that to be a real skeet, you’d need a clear face
They went to Topsail Road, to the Satin Laser Spa
And got the tatties taken off, thinking they still looked real raw

But soon the freshly-starred faces saw what was on the go
So they removed their stars too, with their leftover dough
Back and forth they all went getting tattoos and lasers
Until no one could tell the preps from the hellraisers

At first they went nuts, confused as could be
Until it hit them, the tats were never the key

The star wasn’t what made a man a real skeet
It was fighting and robbing that helped you rule the street
If you’re a skeet, you’re a skeet, stars or no stars
As long as you got a rap sheet and some scars.


[Editor’s note: This is an obvious parodical homage to a Dr. Seuss story with a similar name. Its updated content is based primarily on a man from the East coast of Canada, and that’s as specific as we’ll get here. The author, who is definitely a man named Moe Tussin and not one named Ian Smith, claims to have no afraid of skeets.]

The Skeetches, by Moe Tussin
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