The Pirates of the Carbine
Young G’s sporting tattooed gunz, on rolling black streets,fishing without water, amphibians of the dark ghettos,with names like Ricochet Rob, because he once dreamt of shooting straight.Mumbles, who’s mom was a midnight walker. He was not named for that, butbecause he was hit in the head to much, as a tike and stays drunk, on liquid crack.Then there is Bboss, just because he says so and their ship goes wayback. Riding in circles, on the wavy vinyl streets.They roll up on their port, this side of an intersection, they cannot pass, for the other side its just to deepThey hop out of the grey primered lowrider and begin clubbing, off the hip.Clubing their wares, slingin caps, dumping on anything, that is hauling ass.The stray paint hits, an innocent ankle-biter, across the sea.The truth is black lives matter, unless you are a pirate, with a carbineand are colored blinded, by dead presidents.
4/30/2017
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2017
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