What country is this?
Not mine,
What kind of people allow its people…
What kind of bigotry promotes this
What color is blood?

Your gun is shiny and sticks out of your pants,
It rubs against your *****
and fits perfectly In your hands
The sweat in your palm
Is made of gunpowder and ***.

Jizzle juice monsters
Preying on our streets,
Spraying your ball-bearings
over baby carriages
between the eyes of grandmothers
silencing the singers who only want
to sing.

Can’t you all go somewhere?
Meet somewhere in a desert where
Your bandanas can fly
High on poles of braided bones
With skull dust and snake bile
and maps meant to lead you to
the utopia of your sick wet dreams

There,  Jizzle man, you can have it all
Blow up your rivals and your friends
Bleed yourselves into the rhapsody
of bullet holes and death.
And then
let the rest of us
move on.