Street Beat

[Jimmy Stark]

Feel the heat of the street beat.
Hear the feet of the meek squeak.
Perennially pounding pavement,
Perpetually pushing pestilence.
Hearing caged birds sing
where no phones ring.
Seeing barred windows.
Where the wind blows it goes
where it flows through the boroughs
and borrows our sorrows.
Where the devil drives a Chrysler,
and Christ is a heist.
Where brownstones mean milestones,
and brown skin means firearms.
Where the hydrants hydrate the irate
and the fate of the date illuminates hate.
Where bumpy face is not a feature but a creature
that will defeat you,
eat you,
and unseat you.

The ghetto is a meadow.
Where the slow blow to let go.
Where the hoes throw dro and yayo.
Where the foes load four fours in their drawers.
Where the pain of the slain is in vain.
Where they feign insane and main vein for reign.
Where the trees do not grow and the leaves do not fall.
Where Schweppervescence is the essence.
The feet of the meek squeak because they cannot speak.
It is far too bleak.

The ghetto meadow is shadowed by a colossus
with swatches
no one watches.
So let's do the right thing
bring peace
be a king.
So that the birds can sing outside of cages.
So that the phones can ring throughout the ages.
So that the trees will grow
and the flowers flow.
Make the ghetto a true meadow.
Where you won't have to pack heat
and where trumpets will proclaim
the true street beat.