Little Riddle said the way you got ’em
was a passing glance as if you shot ’em.
In the middle of his dirty bottom was a tattooed star.
Used to line his eyes but never dot ’em,
wear his boots until the mud would rot ’em.
Drive his bike until the cops would spot him.
In his head he heard a soft guitar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
Out in the weeds there was a tireless car.
Anyone within a hundred miles
knew he had a nest of crocodiles.
The police sketch looked like he was Harry Styles,
but with a mean old scar.
And every time they had the boy surrounded,
he would escape in ways that just astounded.
His feet were flyin’ but his head was grounded.
They’d search for hours for him near and far.
He’d show up later in another county.
It didn’t matter what they set as bounty.
Could be Columbo or a Do-Right mountie.
He was a snake under a limbo bar.
The Little Riddle legend still is told.
A hero outlaw story don’t grow old.
There could be ten more verses might unfold.
Maybe some day there’ll be a seminar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
And in his head he heard a soft guitar.