Long Gangland Poems
Long Gangland Poems. Below are the most popular long Gangland by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gangland poems by poem length and keyword.
What is the gift in your life
Is it your husband or wife
Is it your children, your lover, your pet
The notion of someone you haven’t met yet
Is it the door that you shut on the havoc
The sanctity of your four walls
Relaxing with something with lemon and ice
The chatter when family calls
What is the essence of life
Is it the joy or the strife
Is it the gift of another new day
Is it the moonlight that wipes it away
Is it the senses that most take for granted
Til veils are pulled over your eyes
The joy of the breath that means you escaped death
And you realise your life is a prize
What is the price of a life
When it dwells on the edge of a knife
Is it dollars or cents as it sits on the fence
Before it stands firm or repents
Is it a penny ignored by the many
A glint to the partially blind
When shots overhead leave passers-by dead
As I kneel to see what I may find
So what is the value of life
When gangland reprisals are rife
And witnesses number not many
But my life was saved by a penny
So is this the value of life
Not a bargain store bear nor a Steiff
A penny: A low value find
But a glint to the partially blind
Crime is at the order of the day
On the Cape Flats, there is no other way
Life on the Cape Flats has gone haywire
Like a house on fire
Gangs fighting each other
Killing each other
Devoid of any feelings
Never mind the dealings
Harming family and friends
Without making amends
Fighting and harming makes no sense
Like there is no dispense.
Blood flowing in the streets
Like from movie scenes
Gang members being slain
Moreover, there is nothing to gain
Dying with great pain.
Like animals, they are being slain.
Stabbing the heart and head
Killing and not leaving a thread
The saying goes “turn or burn”
The gang bosses prefer to burn
Because they have it all
To them life is a ball
Violence is part of their existence
Despite all the resistance
A life of harming people
Moreover, most of them are good people.
People are now being slain everyday
For the gangs that is the only way
Claiming that the land belongs them
Just like a chest full of phlegm
Some members are sought
For killing people in court
With no respect for the law
Think they can just withdraw
If they do not get bail
They end up in jail
Where they get a hero’s welcome
Every time not just seldom
All bonuses
Goes to the bosses.
All the loses
Are not for the bosses
Members carry the losses
They do not dare show the bosses
If there are any losses
The losses are the members’ causes.
The members will fight amongst each other
Until they satisfied who is the lowest of the brothers
That member will get the lowest of the work
It will be harder than spadework.
Every member wants to become the boss
If they fail, it becomes one big loss
A big relief for the boss
For the member’s family, a big loss
The gangs are not for the feint at heart
You cannot live apart
You must stay in from the start
Or become the lesser part.
If you join the gang
You do so with a bang
Because this type of life
Will cut like a knife
In the gang from the start
You must be very smart
Otherwise you will be torn apart
From the very start
Gang life is a rough ride
looking at it from the inside
you can easily backslide
or pretend to have died.
It felt like Autumn
on this morning’s run
I want it to be fall
with its syllabus of vibes
I’m signaling a stance
I’m autumn’s undoubted champion
wearing my choice like gangland colours
- I could give my all to fall -
summer only ever had my subdivided attention
Summer’s just too needy: it demands relaxation,
bare legs, sun block, beach plans, hydration,
barbecue, and relentless fun, with scant variations
I want the visual promise of leaves falling
the flattering autumnal colour palette
my whole devotion crowns shortening days
fall always serves as a competent stylist
complete with venti pumpkin lattes
and mornings with a costume of frost
Unbind the theatrical heats of midsummer nights
and let the season's advance revive us
show us falls slanting golden afternoon light
let crisper darknesses harbour counterfeit witches
and lengthening dusks warrant winter wishes
Let fall assume her russet throne
and give us autumn’s cool agenda
without the influenza
.
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Songs for this:
Ping Pong by Dimie Cat
Messy by Lola Young
Max, the politician, wields a razor-sharp axe,
Slicing his chicken-bleep opponents' necks and backs.
"How dare they accuse me of power politics?" Max asks,
Innocent jowls masking the jaws of a shark's attack.
His gangland campaign staff for money never lacks;
Max' men shake down local pimps, and dealers of cocaine and crack.
As for the fuzz, Max is hip; he's got the inside track:
Scoring deals for them on the best ecstasy and smack.
First elected back in '72, Max walked the length and breadth of the state,
A reformer, he was, a renegade; at least the voters thought so and fell for the bait.
Ensconced in palatial power ever since, Max has glad-handed, partied, drank, and ate.
A 'politician's pol' all these years, his formidable paunch and polling punch have proven great.
Belly out over his belt, this balloon of a man once again challenges fate,
Can he hang on again in 2018, or will this be Max' last hurrah on the party's election slate?
Attorney General William
Barr black marker in hand
kept promise to censor vital
details of Mueller Report
swift as Usain Bolt candidly,
grandly, lustrously, roundly
youthfully blocked out more
rapid than an elegant eland
vibrantly, regally, magically,
and gracefully skirts borderland
which favored topography
constitutes grassland or woodland,
far more pleasing to observe,
than reading adulterated brand
of aforementioned compilation,
distillation, edification, fortification
zeroing questionable activity
upon head of trumpeting brigand,
whose arrivistic, bombastic, caustic,
demonic, electric broadband
outsize ego still convinces
me, thee commander in chief
delegated one or more chargehand
perhaps while delighting as
gourmand savoring chateaubriand,
where his best buddies imagined
themselves in seventh heaven cloudland
every so often taking siesta sans repast
or golfing with grisly handicapped clubhand
non verbally communicating,
in viz sub bully taking a peas zing
cues from presidential high command,
which coterie (i.e. den of thieves)
manipulated social media with nefarious,
insidious, deleterious, et cetera
analogous to "FAKE" contraband,
maybe even milking innocent cowhand
unwittingly planting GMO electronic
bugs amidst future bovine fodder cropland
to allow, enable, and jackknife demand
that moost every eligible voter tricked
induced by virtual reality dreamland
with sinister motive for thee "Apprentice"
rule his kingdom, and expand,
realm asper Medieval days
declaring himself chieftain of fatherland
and/ or North American motherland
where naysayers guillotined
by uncontested firebrand,
who without provocation
very likely bomb into Stone Age
formerly edenic, lush, verdant
geography into flatland
rendered hostile, poisonous and uninhabitable
nonetheless radiating for miles with gangland
forced labor tilling barren, desolate, fissured
landscape erecting unsightly grand
standing room only (cause he know Shylock)
terrain (reign) vast highland
manor as poobah, and husband
to his only heiress, the former
a kooky monster from foggy bottom marshland.
"God give you the strength to finish this your way"?
I don't think you are first on his list, a special chair on judgment day?
better meditate, get it straight, rinse and repeat, people are people
so maybe when you're not "winning" people say, not sarcastically
that's okay, he's allright,
he's a good man with a magnetic personalitay livin right
or you can be an evil serving self proclaimed savior of gangland racket
too kool this mouth of the north and the south, with the devils ball sack in it
unpalatable to me if true colors were flavors,
id have to spew it from my mouth, like a bad flavr flav of JayZ or PeeDiddy or the other tools lyricals.
Think the world needs something refreshing,
no color on the brain, but still Golden, a golden giving heart molded upon brotherhoods fleece meshing. Not seeing scapegoats and color and retaliation.
You want to be a superstar, just dive right on in,
get on the ball, get in the game
But me more DeMarcus"ware" of your surroundings, Lest your words can block a fortress, a Minecraft of bombs. Are you on the front lines or sounbyte drive-by ing in your Catablack Escapade and control your own
climate, which is frigid to some.
Verily brothers I say to you, one might say
that all colors bleed into one,
colorless, souls, before God, judgment on, day
one
I think I'll work on my abs today
Maybe run on the belt
Work some muscles that in 15 years
I haven't felt
Like a player in concussion
Like the caveman with no pelt,
I coulda been sporty
But forty is forty
Every day I look at the status,
Checkin’ for cracks in my dreams
Sometimes I get to thinkin’
I could only ever act in extremes
I hatch a scenario
Of Hollywood gangland schemes
A page from Get Shorty
Well I'm only forty
So now I’m in the bullring
But the bull won’t give me a glance
It’s a real tough situation
In the deep end of a romance
But my sword is feeling potent –
Why not give things another chance
with the one who gored me?
That’s life at forty.
2015
Frightened at what his eyes had found
Young Ben Wilson looked around
Shuttered windows, broken glass
drug dealers, the smell of grass
Each day he prayed that he'd escape
a culture of gang wars and rape
In school he earned the highest grades
Junior year, shot up to six feet, eight
A basketball scholarship was his for sure
and he'd be rich when he matured
All of Chicago was rooting for Ben
his senior year about to start, and then
Gangland style -- shot in the head
Ben Wilson's name midst the ghetto's dead
Thirty-five years passed, not much has changed
The shootings continue, just the names rearranged
Oh no! Train again!
Perched upon parallels of steel,
You roll your way on heavy wheels.
Thundering through town
With a rhythmic rattle and clickity-clack.
Your deep throat rumbles diesel black.
Cars convey a cargo of corn syrup,
Commuters and coal.
You are an ant trail of steel
Packing prizes from a picnic port.
You are the artery of America’s life blood.
--Four full sets of dominoes
Laid in one long row.
--A segmented serpent
Slithering on shining steel.
--A bright-eyed Cyclops screaming in the night,
Awakening children with a fright.
--A termite traveling through boroughs
Beneath the “Big Apple”.
You are the canvas of gangland graffiti
And ferry for freight hoppers
Who dare to hitch a ride.
A network linking limits sea to sea.
Now, rattle past, and make it fast.
I’ve places I should be.
Too much Edward G
You dirty rat
James Cagney
Mae West
Chicago gangland in her heyday
Portrayed with beautiful dames
Singing seductive songs,
wearing mink, diamonds, slinky satin
Belonging to their men
I was almost asleep one night
When I heard a car chasing me down an alley.
I turned and saw it; and was terrified.
I knew it was a past life memory
Also the mobsters in the car were after me.
Snitches get stitches.
My heart had never beat this fast.
They were gaining.
I turned down an alley.
Heard the car stop.
Terrified, I was looking for an out.
Hid behind a trash can.
Someone fished me out
Threw me down.
I saw two men in shadow above me.
One leaned down and I felt a knife
Cut my throat from side to side.
I knew I deserved it, so I closed my eyes