Scarface

Scarface (A British Ode)

In a dimly‑lit cinema, the opening credits flash,
The glow of neon on a black‑and‑white screen,
The roar of a trumpet, and a hungry heart’s crash—
Scarface breathes a quiet, ruthless dream.

Tony Montana, plump with ambition’s scar,
His beard a whip‑shot – a promise of reward,
Colour‑shimmering suits beneath the opal star,
Crashing into fog‑shrouded, decadent shores.

The music thumps, a pulsating, un‑tried beat,
"Say Hello to My Little Friend," he wails,
A lorry of violence cars through the street,
And the city’s at once a safe haven and a jail.

He climbs, he conquers, he looms over every yard,
Till the weight of the world, a stain of sweat and blood;
First a lover, then a tyrant, the scar becomes art,
A twisted masterpiece dressed in licence to do.

Even at the end, the fire still glows with anger:
The cannon’s roar, the slow water that drifts,
The rise, the fall, a pistol’s gentle tang,
A lesson wrapped in golden skin – a curse well‑wished.

So I close my eyes, and the scene comes alive:
The velvet curtain, the glitter of the silver screen,
Scarface is the mirror, if I’m bold enough to strife,
For we are each the owner of a life‑scare like a laconic dream.