Our Mothers, lovely women pitiful;
  Our Sisters, gracious in their life and death;
  To us each unforgotten memory saith:
"Learn as we learned in life's sufficient school,
Work as we worked in patience of our rule,
  Walk as we walked, much less by sight than faith,
  Hope as we hoped, despite our slips and scathe,
Fearful in joy and confident in dule."
I know not if they see us or can see;
  But if they see us in our painful day,
    How looking back to earth from Paradise
    Do tears not gather in those loving eyes?--
  Ah, happy eyes! whose tears are wiped away
Whether or not you bear to look on me.

From the French of François Villon

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they then?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Ridin straight down crooked  lines  on the highway  havin good times the fly way Losin our minds. Expecting to die any day.

Reckless behavior noted like the numbers on my pager calling to wager a price for a rush of danger no granger given by a stranger

This life tries the souls of good men always has since the world began it ain't stoppin till the world's end I'll never die since I'm known as sin

Shoot me down in a dule containing 2 fools who believe there fit to rule over the hood with the biggest crew but the smallest win

Ghetto dreams die 1 by 1 every scream that haunts the shooter of the gun in there dreams stress of anothers death on there chest makes livin a test


Count every breath as you walk in a bigger homies
Steps lookin to end up in the dirt locked in a chest with blunt layin on your chest

Breath free and walk tall in streets when you a one man beast without a doubt about weather yo could stomp an entire crowd

Respect the gun quite or loud loaded or empty real or fake the symbolism of the souls it could take purposely or by mistake it takes 1 bullet to dig a grave

Words are the fiercest weapon.
They tear and wound and leave no trace.
And vanquish those who do not know…
They were the target in the first place.

But the deliverer of this syllable attack
Is the one who suffers most.
The deadly drip from a poisoned pen
Will likely **** its host.
For hate does grow…not fast or slow…but steady like a breath.
The septic end of a ****** pen
Will nick your soul to death.

under a black sun
death came

bodies hang
from dule trees

a tragedy
of commons

each is guilt
all will die

maggots feast
none will cry