( saga of the streets)
1
It didn't seem to matter
As hard as he always tried
His thoughts would become scattered
Seeing hate come from another mans eyes
Someone else controlling his livelihood
Hate, prejudice, identities forgotten
Coulda, woulda, and then ending up at shoulda
His ancestors must have went through this, when they picked cotton
Analyzing the risks, knowing exactly what he would be up against
Getting his money from the streets would be tough
But going about it the other way was draining his strength
So he invested his resources in a sack, this was how he would come up
Now it was on, his sympathy gone
Wading through the cut throats and those who chose this game to play
His hours on the block would be from dusk to dawn
Rocks for $20 chips that he could parlay
Watching those who were watching, believing the police are crooks too
Always in his face with strange behavior, it’s as if he was their savior
He sold to addicts, those disenfranchised, even the well to do
Needles in their arms, lips around a pipe, a fix, the only reason why they labor
Having justified in his mind , this means to his ends
He reflects on a corrupted society that included him too
Counting his money was always how the days would begin
Thinking only about what his $20 bills will do
2
To him the war on drugs was a joke
Strolling the streets all night and sleeping all day
There never was a day where he couldn't choke
Always broke, but always finding a way
Never knowing, never caring how much time he would waste
Scandalous thoughts with misguided intentions
His mind constantly racing, while eating food he didn't taste
Living in denial, claiming this lifestyle was not his invention
He didn't think it odd, a plume of smoke being his god
His dignity now exiled
In and out of jail, his second home is the "A" pod
Because he always seemed to fit the description, or the profile
Homeless, having lost all feeling
Always on the alert for what he could steal and fence
Never would you find him with his head bowed, or kneeling
Praying to anyone for anything just didn't make sense
There was nothing on streets that he hadn't seen
Always lit up, not giving a fuck, and never getting enough
A life that is a blueprint on how to give up, instead he feigns
His hair never combed and he's always looking rough
Somehow the voices of his habit keep calling him
These evil spirits are the only ones that he will acknowledge
…and so that is the company he feels most comfortable in
To live his peace, this private heaven and hell, costs only 20 dollars
3
She was her own worst enemy
Never afraid of the worlds oldest misdemeanor
Still haunted by the wicked smile that stole her virginity
Now used to anonymous souls who pay to lay in between her
Over time, it became easy to shut everything off
There was always a sham, or a way to hit a lick
Faith, trust, and forgiveness were the things at which she scoffed
Now all she wants to do is slam, and sees' everyone as just tricks
Disregarding the weather, her disdain beyond measure
Walking her beat, in the middle of a tweak
Eyes on high beam, ready to indulge in her twenty dollar treasure
Another John rolls up hoping to reach his peak
A deep sigh taken right before again selling her soul
She feels his rough skin and smells liquor against his breath
Strangely with each passing thrust, she felt in control
While in all actuality, her spirit was dying another death
Despondent, ignoring the risks and spewing her scorn
She hasn't seen her children in months
The dealer takes her money, now to score, again she must perform
All because she could only afford to pay for her fronts
Paranoid, with her esteem in need of repair
Her arms display the footprints left by misery
She STILL can only think of one way to remove this despair
…and that is to produce another twenty
Rory
©RJ2008/10 originally written in 2008 with final edit in '10
1
It didn't seem to matter
As hard as he always tried
His thoughts would become scattered
Seeing hate come from another mans eyes
Someone else controlling his livelihood
Hate, prejudice, identities forgotten
Coulda, woulda, and then ending up at shoulda
His ancestors must have went through this, when they picked cotton
Analyzing the risks, knowing exactly what he would be up against
Getting his money from the streets would be tough
But going about it the other way was draining his strength
So he invested his resources in a sack, this was how he would come up
Now it was on, his sympathy gone
Wading through the cut throats and those who chose this game to play
His hours on the block would be from dusk to dawn
Rocks for $20 chips that he could parlay
Watching those who were watching, believing the police are crooks too
Always in his face with strange behavior, it’s as if he was their savior
He sold to addicts, those disenfranchised, even the well to do
Needles in their arms, lips around a pipe, a fix, the only reason why they labor
Having justified in his mind , this means to his ends
He reflects on a corrupted society that included him too
Counting his money was always how the days would begin
Thinking only about what his $20 bills will do
2
To him the war on drugs was a joke
Strolling the streets all night and sleeping all day
There never was a day where he couldn't choke
Always broke, but always finding a way
Never knowing, never caring how much time he would waste
Scandalous thoughts with misguided intentions
His mind constantly racing, while eating food he didn't taste
Living in denial, claiming this lifestyle was not his invention
He didn't think it odd, a plume of smoke being his god
His dignity now exiled
In and out of jail, his second home is the "A" pod
Because he always seemed to fit the description, or the profile
Homeless, having lost all feeling
Always on the alert for what he could steal and fence
Never would you find him with his head bowed, or kneeling
Praying to anyone for anything just didn't make sense
There was nothing on streets that he hadn't seen
Always lit up, not giving a fuck, and never getting enough
A life that is a blueprint on how to give up, instead he feigns
His hair never combed and he's always looking rough
Somehow the voices of his habit keep calling him
These evil spirits are the only ones that he will acknowledge
…and so that is the company he feels most comfortable in
To live his peace, this private heaven and hell, costs only 20 dollars
3
She was her own worst enemy
Never afraid of the worlds oldest misdemeanor
Still haunted by the wicked smile that stole her virginity
Now used to anonymous souls who pay to lay in between her
Over time, it became easy to shut everything off
There was always a sham, or a way to hit a lick
Faith, trust, and forgiveness were the things at which she scoffed
Now all she wants to do is slam, and sees' everyone as just tricks
Disregarding the weather, her disdain beyond measure
Walking her beat, in the middle of a tweak
Eyes on high beam, ready to indulge in her twenty dollar treasure
Another John rolls up hoping to reach his peak
A deep sigh taken right before again selling her soul
She feels his rough skin and smells liquor against his breath
Strangely with each passing thrust, she felt in control
While in all actuality, her spirit was dying another death
Despondent, ignoring the risks and spewing her scorn
She hasn't seen her children in months
The dealer takes her money, now to score, again she must perform
All because she could only afford to pay for her fronts
Paranoid, with her esteem in need of repair
Her arms display the footprints left by misery
She STILL can only think of one way to remove this despair
…and that is to produce another twenty
Rory
©RJ2008/10 originally written in 2008 with final edit in '10
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