there is blood in the streets and dripping from the slick soles of shoes of the smiling old men who sell souls and buy lunch, who never see and who never stop smiling.
there is blood in the streets and flaking like rust from the walls of the banks and the prisons, staining the palms of the rich and the ruthless.
there is blood in the streets, a graveyard full of my friends and a holy battlefield where kids with bandanas and baseball bats fight for their lives and for those whose guts stain the whole city red.
there is blood in the streets, and the rich white men build themselves bridges so far above the red running river that they can call this peace.
there is blood in the streets, but all you can see is a trash can on fire and the scattered shards of shattered glass.