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The Dead Man
I ponder why I'm still alive,
How can a man still survive,
On the crime and deaths
That this town thrives.
I grew homeless, lived on the streets,
Where it's normal to be white with black feet.
Where we were corrupted, penniless,
And begging to survive the heat.
One day I was handed a gun,
Swore to secrecy to tell no one.
They said, "come on, join the club
And we'll have some pretty fun."
I'm just part of a league of thugs,
Cigarettes, booze, and alcohol jugs.
All we have in life is each other,
And a few boxes of drugs.
One man wants another's head.
Will pay for him alive or dead.
How can I become filthy green
While the streets become bloody red.
And I come home wondering why,
I should live such a dreary life,
And then I look upon my mother.
I could tell their were tears in her eyes.
I'm just a man full of crime.
With a reputation and a few rhymes.
And I would like to write a few more
But it looks it is my time.
So I walk out a dead man,
Hunted down by madmen.
Love me darling closely,
It's the last time you ever can.
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I do not live or reflect on this life style. I am just capturing the aspect of living in crime and poverty. The idea came to me actually by London gangs of the 1800's so just add guns into the mix and there is the poem. Enjoy.