Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Trifling juvenile players harping silly tunes
Guns and bling-bling, fake love and stuff like that
I'm no candy man, never been, but I know this
You will need to cut back on the crap

Or we will forever hear your lives going drip-drip
All over a collection of nick-knacks, I'll be damned

A finger snaps and the so-called snitch screams
In between sobs he hopes this in just a bad dream
Fake soldier takes a puff from the cancer stick
And draws a heart of smoke in the air

This, he says, waving pistol for emphasis
Is what happens when you go telling on a gangster
And the lost lieutenants nod their noggins
Some gang-banger somewhere is reloading

At the station a sergeant fancies himself a swiffer
Appointed by his conscience to make the streets cleaner
You kids are swift but the arm of the law is swifter
So play your lame game and watch him work his cleaver

Too many people think violence is a love song
But the moment you think you got it you're wrong
Go figure. This is not about pointing fingers
But a sense of ominous foreboding lingers

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