STREET LIFE

Below Fifty degrees
jumped in the camo fatigues
fitting apparel for the jungle
and the NYPD

Street life, honestly
is a correctional commodity
turning mothers to mourners,
even after mama warned ya,
like fly paper they trapped
on the neighborhood corners,

Beef patties and paddy wagons,
funk from the sour dragon'
dice, dead presidents and chicks
with fat asses, some of them good
and some with bad habits,

cops lock, back to the cell block,
folding laundry or pushing a dust mop,
three a days on tax payer wage
sitting in a cage, enraged,
framed by some random glock.