The Further Adventures of the Vanier Hitter
When we left our charming anti-hero
It was Hit Man seven, Good Guys zero.
But his tale’s not told, though his ammo’s spent--
There are always feet to encase in cement.
He lurks wherever there’s elbows to rub,
Dispatching yuppies, with a knife or club.
So stock up on ice packs and anti-venom,
And b’ware th’ bad cat dressed to kill in denim.
Tonight he strikes at the Philharmonic,
Where he renders a tuba player catatonic.
Concertgoers gasp, in shock and awe,
As the head swings limp, with a detached jaw.
Then dodging sirens and flashing lights,
Hear him vow to return on Opera Night…