Shredding In The Ghetto
Intro
Out past the corner store, where the ice cream truck fears to roll,
Lies a block with more rhythm than a washing machine on spin cycle,
Where the cats wear sunglasses at midnight,
And every pothole’s got a story to tell.
Tonight, I tune my axe—rusty strings, missing a knob,
Ready to melt faces in the moonlit back alley,
Like a mangy Pitbull with a vendetta… and a killer solo.
Verse One
Woke up this morning, amp buzzing like my neighbor’s old fridge,
Slapped on my battle vest—duct tape, soda stains, and a whiff of cheese,
Strutted outside, guitar in hand, hair like a busted mop,
The pigeons scattered, the mailman ran,
But the rats? They stayed for the show.
I cranked my volume—knob turned to “obnoxious,”
Let the riff rip like a can opener in a tornado,
Kids peeking out the window, thinking I’m the ghost of Hendrix,
But really, I’m just here for the glory,
And maybe a slice of leftover pizza.
Verse Two
Now Mrs. Jenkins on the third floor, shaking her fist in time,
Yells, “Turn it down!”—but her parrot’s headbanging, squawking sublime.
The streetlights flicker, dogs howl, the hydrant sprays applause,
My solos wail so fierce, even the stray cats press pause.
My fingers fly like ninjas high on energy drinks,
Strings screaming like sirens in a midnight chase,
Each note a lightning bolt, each chord a wild embrace.
Neighbors peep through curtains, can’t believe their ears,
While the moon taps its foot and the night sky cheers.
There’s no encore like thunder when I strum that last refrain—
A symphony of chaos swirling down the midnight lane.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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