I.
June 15th, 1986 my momma gave birth to a spix.
Brown hair, black eyes; let's kill him now since he hasn't been baptized, send him to HELL with the rest of em', but I would grow to be flyer than the best of them.
II.
This the poem of my life, the passage of my right, America's plight, plough shares down Weathering Heights, stocks plummeting minimum wage, hungry stomachs grumbling hollow men unfazed.
III.
Captured by the new craze, mixed up in crooked ways, play the game or get turned away, blades out under tongue, cut your throat, yet hold your tongues, muskets loaded pointed at the sun, pointed at your sons, beware the final proof.
IV.
Behold the smoking gun.
