See The Man

Make for the corner, Fresno-Whittier

(there’s neighbourhoods a whole lot prettier):

it’s probably ten-ninety-six,

but don’t draw weapons -- that’s a Nix.

The man before you’s not a “perp”,

so don’t come on like Wyatt Earp.

 

Latina (claims she’s J-Lo’s cousin)

talking nineteen to the dozen

says she almost bought the farm,

but totally (we think) unharmed.

Find the pale-blue shotgun shack:

he’s out front, and she’s out back.

 

Ten-zero, boys.  Proceed with caution.

Blame’s not something we apportion.

They love each other -- had a fight,

same as any couple might.

Bear in mind one simple thing:

no-one wants a Rodney King.

 

So, L.A.’s Finest, when you swoop,

he’s sitting on the streetside stoop,

and spouting incoherent crap,

samurai sword across his lap.

Don’t pay no mind to what he’s blurting --

the guy’s okay.  He’s simply hurting.

 

Don’t see a spic from Zapopan,

look at him closely.  See the man.

Don’t think, “one of the w*****k horde”:

think what it took to make that sword.

Someone tempered, shaped, embossed it.

And Juan’s a man.  He simply lost it.

 

He came up here in eighty-eight,

and settled in the Orange State.

Wielded wrenches, welded axes,

raised his kids and paid his taxes,

and now he’s slowly catching on:

there’s nothing else.  His youth is gone.

 

He mops the floors at Taco Bell,

and Carmencita gives him hell.

He’d wail a horn, like Bobby Prewitt,

but doesn’t have the art to do it.

So let’s forget the “better than”.

Go easy, fellas.  See the man.