He was born.
In hardtime Mississippi.
Destined to be imprisoned
in so many sad ditties.
Just as he was the song,
he wore his shirts too long,
and everywhere he roamed,
he was wrong.
His friend was crazy as hell,
a dingling bell.
Could never see,
if it was sex or a panic attack.
Chebanse, a cockbite,
going on and on about wanting a cool drink,
saying he was aware of his rights,
more so than we might think.
Living just enough.
Just enough,
for the city.
Hernando grew up sometime,
and still, he found himself in these lines,
trapped and besmirched and befaggled,
across the thoroughfare, bedraggled.
Destined to gun down a man in a hold up,
violence in the commission of a crime,
so he was set up, sent up, then pinned up,
walled in for the remainder of his life.
Meanwhile in Tampa, "not at my country club neighborhood"
all along, against Donald's shouting, the people stood,
and his radar was down, cuz he knew they were mad
but it was because of the injustices and tantrums he had, had.
had.
Living just enough.
Just enough,
for the city.
Hernando was building a cabinet,
and she had a tattoo on her neck.
He put in a lighting bar and felt lining,
gave her something for delicate fingers to inspect.
She herself,
never out and dirty,
an easy laugh and a ready smile,
too humble to call herself purdy.
Perdy did die, a fireball,
a fire extinguisher to the head,
and the rest went on.
Zepparelli, and the rest,
cold shrimp and white wine,
Perdy not extricated,
till long after the rest had gone.
He had been
Living just enough.
Just enough,
for the city.
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