Terminator

Two walk into the street, at high noon Few talk, in lieu of beat, that fly tune A long low whistle, gathers a crowd The song bro. is cool, rappers allowed Fluent in literary mortification Prudent in arbitrary concentration With the first shot fired, the crowd oohs! It does hurt but not dire, a wowed blow Return fire is another matter In turn, higher is the stir’s laughter One struts, into the sundown Some cuts, ensue a showdown