Beware the Ides of December

T'was just about 6:00a.m., in New York City, on this date way back in 1927 when Richard Lubey crossed the threshold into his apartment after a long night of managing his speakeasy. At the ripe old age of six and twenty years, Lubey had many a crime attributed to him, crimes like gun possession, robbery and counterfeiting.

Anywho-ville, his wife who slumbered in the next room, heard him enter and begin to disrobe. First his coat and then his vest. But before anymore articles of clothing could be removed there was a rapping, some might say a gentle tapping, a tapping at the apartment door. "Tis some gangster," Lubey muttered, "tapping at my apartment door. Only this and nothing more."

Mrs. Lubey heard him answer the door but paid no attention to the conversation he had with the early morning visitor.
Ah, but she would henceforth remember/what happened next in that bleak December/ when from the underworld came forth a member/ come to settle a bootlegging score.
A bullet lodged above her bed/ which first passed through her husband's head/ her husband who now lay dead, dead upon the foyer floor.