| Voilà!
|
| Pullin' rabbit food out a parka
|
| Carrots catch the light right, up the block from the farmer
|
| He got that lettuce, that cabbage, that broccoli
|
| Tryin' to catch a fire
|
| Locks like Marley
|
| That Chevy frame rattling like a Caribbean roof-top in the rain,
|
| and the window panes wiggle following suit
|
| And the black suits sell bean pies, and the cream suits shout soap box
|
| And the lime-green suits send angels to the streets with botox (Shh)
|
| Don’t talk
|
| Cuz there’s rollers in the corner (whoop!)
|
| Football on the blacktop
|
| Little C rush the quarter
|
| Five alligator, six alligator, seven alligator, car!
|
| Game on, till the street lights came on
|
| Crowd out by the Save-On
|
| Paper bags 'round tall cans, talkin' that old manishness like
|
| Damn, when I was 22 I woulda coulda used to be the shit!
|
| By the high-waisted bikini model standee
|
| Two eleven in penny candy
|
| Storm comin'
|
| Everybody inside
|
| It’s a war comin'
|
| Stack your bread, get high
|
| Gotta pour somethin'
|
| Out for the homies
|
| Turn that beat up
|
| Get loaded
|
| It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride
|
| Donald Duck, Sunny D, Tampico, Capri-Sun
|
| Orange couch, plastic wrap, What’s Happening! |
| re-run
|
| Oak frame hologram Jesus portrait
|
| Brown shag carpet, broken screen door to the back porch
|
| Pipes in the toilet gurgle every six minutes like clock-work
|
| Grandfather’s clock not working
|
| Great grandmama’s Crock Pot chocked full of stew meat
|
| 'Who, me?' |
| said a speech bubble on a dog on a Sunday morning comic
|
| Clipped and stuck up to the fridge with big chip bag magnet
|
| Big chips stacked in the armoire
|
| Behind glass, where the dominoes and the Bicycle cards are
|
| And the thick yellowing crystal tumblers
|
| One sits on the table
|
| With a single ice cube melting into a thimble full of Jack Daniels
|
| The telephone receiver hangs
|
| Swingin' by the cord
|
| And the front door is swingin'
|
| Wide open, accordingly
|
| And that big block engine turnin' over in the Caprice
|
| That’s peelin' out of the driveway, lettin' the tires screech
|
| Storm comin'
|
| Everybody inside
|
| It’s a war comin'
|
| Stack your bread, get high
|
| Gotta pour somethin'
|
| Out for the homies
|
| Turn that beat up
|
| Get loaded
|
| It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride
|
| Orange cones and yellow tape
|
| Palm trees swayin', passers by all look the other way
|
| Nobody speak to police this or any other day
|
| They comb the streets, knock door to door asking for mother’s sake
|
| Trying to catch another break
|
| Body on the pavement 'bout 10 steps from the front porch
|
| Photographer snappin' pics to go with the coroners report
|
| Of the seven exit wounds, three in the skull four in the torso
|
| Blood spread dry, red black red snapback even more so
|
| Lays three paces to the south
|
| The direction of the wind
|
| New deputy pissed he picking up shell casings again
|
| Finds one in the browning grass by the sagging four foot high chain link fence
|
| Drops it in a bag marked 'Evidence'
|
| Here come that Caprice again
|
| Rolling too slow up the street men sit four deep in
|
| They seats and slow up by the scene, bandanas hide they faces
|
| But all they heads are shakin'
|
| They nod in unison and hit the corner without brakin'
|
| Storm comin'
|
| Everybody inside
|
| It’s a war comin'
|
| Stack your bread, get high
|
| Gotta pour somethin'
|
| Out for the homies
|
| Turn that beat up
|
| Get loaded
|
| It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Murder on the outside, everybody inside
|
| Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride |