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."
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