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Pt 1
He represents his set, with 
Every breath he draws,
He makes color his priority,
Matisse with machine gun,
Splurging Rothko’s’ vengeance 
On the blue bodies of Americas renegades.
A Blood, from Compton
The roar of stolen 
Car engines, echoes through 
The jungle as all human turns Tyger,
Eventually.

His dad was a coke dealer,
His mum was a dope fiend.
Guru had four brothers,
 Who were all coke fiends.
All of them had been shot,
Over the contents of a crayon box.
They showed guru the jungle,
In which every fight was fought.

Guru kicks a tin, 
Along his muddy path,
Seeing animal wield gun,
Committing crime, 
As the sizzling, searing hot sun
Over the city of angels 
Tears at their flesh as they run,
Into the one way street of the animal kingdom.

In his grey, asphalt Amazon, 
Were signs are trees and plant forna,
Concrete equates to mans honor,
Mercy runs dry, and the ground
Is rich. Blood killed and blood spilled 
Hundreds are lying in every ditch,
Fertilizing the ground,
As the night erupts, again with sound.
 
Pt2

Putting in work, blacking out color,
He had licked too much blood
To glint his teeth,
Behind his red stained whiskers.
He kicked his tin, and they shrank 
From his red dripping whiskers.

The fabled customers,
Covering currency, 
Rattled in every night,
Paid for pockets of cocaine,
They didn’t think of,
Gurus’ hardship. But no pain
No gain, so he took it,
And dug his claws in it:
A game he couldn’t forfeit.

Guru kicked a tin
Along straights and bends.
He had shot a little boy,
With four bites from his friend.
He heard a roar, 
Then felt the sound,
Of tigers paws 
Padding on ground.

Tearing his back,
With vengeful bites.
Revenge was served
And left him dying, red
Oozing from his chest.
Another Tyger dead.
His brother will avenge him,
With revenge
Banging in his head.

They met gurus’ dead eyes.
Disgust wetting their sheets.
The hardcore journalists, 
Braving the beet,
Deprived of significance
And stride,
By the red striped tiger,
And the friend at his side.
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