Like a thug Irish street gang,

Beat up, mangy, and gnarled.

Crowded together as if for a mug shot,

The large one, the muscle, crusted over,

Put through the wringer,

Next to him was the big guy’s best friend,

Mastermind of the whole outfit,

Long, skinny, and balding 

Hairs ingrown,

Then there was Roast-Beef,

Or so he was called,

On account of looking like he lost

Every fight he ever fought,

Next was the little guy with none

Of the personality of the others,

Just a runt who repeated everything

Roast-Beef said,

Finally, there was Wee-Wee,

Little brother of Roast-Beef,

Who cried at the first sight of clippers

And ran all the way home.