GoodFellas

In a city that never sleeps, the nights are lit
with shadows long where smokestacks bleed mist.
“Goodfellas,” they whisper, a name that’s pure grit,
a legend where loyalty and blood are the tryst.

The cold wind of London’s alleys, the hum of a train,
would crumble the bravado of any American train.
But the world of the Bleeched, the Borscht, the brass,
still hums the ballad of brothers gathered in mass.

Pints of bitter ale, a mate shaking a hand,
the street-corner pacts that survive shifting sand.
From Reggie’s wise‑crackled grin to the silent mid‑night scream,
they trust in a pact no lawyer can scheme.

The blade never rests, the call still rings true—
in every line, the promise that if one fails, all do.
A boy with a dream, a devil’s midnight brood,
Goodfellas stands, echoing in the mist of a brooding mood.