A gone son of a gun, lives by the gun
To gun down sons of guns
A rare black and white raven, ravaging dexterity, thus ambidextrous
The hood of hoodlums with hoodies on.
Boogie down to the next hood in a life full of nothingness, an absolute solemnity
Wobbles and gobbles my own fate. Seated upon this seat and wallow in a staggering gait that amounts to nothing.
The thinker of no tomorrow, goer of nowhere, ambassador of poverty and learner of nothing.
Peradventure I die, a good meal of the vultures I’d become. Those are my favorites and future sadistic poets that’ll sing me a dirge.
I am a sycophantic and unardorned follower
Of the traditions of this bitter-sweet society
Bitter it is for I’m not enjoying
Sweet it is for I enjoy it. Mixed feeling of the pilfering society.
I hate tattoos. I drew mine to be recognized. I watch recognized people with tattoos. What’s holding up mine?
I’m a picture of a dreadlock that looks awful, an epitome of a jagged up life and a hardened hench. Who lives for nothing but the pleasures of a sweet and loving weed. Day in day out. This is why I love this society, this hood and my world…