Cartel life—oh what a show,
With flashy cars and cash to throw.
They strut in suits, all dark and neat,
But can't sneak past a Taco Bell receipt.
They whisper in Spanish, plot in the night,
But trip on their shoelaces mid-getaway flight.
They've got secret codes, encrypted and slick—
But forget their own passwords, now isn't that rich?
Their "stash house" is just Aunt Maria's shed,
Guarded by chickens and a goat named Fred.
They try to look scary, all mean and aloof,
But run from a chihuahua on the neighbor's roof.
So if you meet a "cartel boss" in town,
Don't panic or frown or even look down.
Just offer him tacos, a soda, a seat—
And watch him confess with salsa-stained feet!
B