Crime of Passion

Take off your pants This is no romance. It’s a stick up. As Woodie said They can rob you with a fountain pen But I don’t your money And I don’t take prisoners. What I want to take from you Is your turn to talk. You see This gun which I use in my trade Is always pressed against my brain. Its fatal touch Doesn’t come with bullets But with my words That always it their mark But drift into a deaf wind. If all my friends learn to listen they’d Hear "Je suis avec les paysans car je suis l'un d'entre eux. Et laisser ma langue devenir une guillotine Donc je peux couper à travers les absurdités De tous les courtiers immobiliers Dont les lignes viennent comme théâtre bon marché. I want you to Bury my heart on the Upper West Side. I want the beat to Sing the SRO tenants’ War song. To drive all landlords back across the Hudson or the L.I.E And ebb the flow of Those who are just visiting And who speak the tongue of their nameless towns."