The line for the local convenience store Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb, Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”
We make like big balloons who self-implode: Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns, Fighting for survival makes mores erode When a dark illusion has fooled billions.
Little John waits in line with his mommy, No more than a decade, he learns to shoot. Life was quiet like a dark raging sea, Now we shake from a screen and men in suits
Fear not, trembling people of the world, There is a way to end the gun violence, To stop making canyons of the knurled: Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!
Automatics in the professor’s desk, Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs, End common fear with something more grotesque: Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.